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THE  UNIVERSITY  OF 

NORTH  CAROLINA 

LIBRARY 


THE  WILMER  COLLECTION 

OF  CIVIL  WAR  NOVELS 

PRESENTED  BY 

RICHARD  H.  WILMER,  JR. 


A  WAK-TIME  WOOING 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2009  with  funding  from 

University  of  North  Carolina  at  Chapel  Hil 


http://www.archive.org/details/wartimewooingstoOOking 


Colonel  Putnam  raises  to  the  light  of  the  first  lantern  a  hairy, 
bushy  olyject.'' — [See  p.  50.] 


A  WAR-TIME  WOOING 


H  Stori^ 


BY 

CAPTAIN  CHARLES  KING,  U.  S.  A. 


ILLUSTRATED 


NEW    YORK 
HARPER    &    BROTHERS,  FRANKLIN   SQUARE 

1888 


Copyright,  18SS,  by  Harper  &  Brothers. 


All  right}  reserved. 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


"  COLONEL  PUTNAM  RAISES  TO  THE  LIGHT  OF 
THE      FIRST     LANTERN     A     HAIRY,     BCSIIY 

object" Frontispiece. 

"the  VIRGINIANS    KNEW  A   BRAVE    MAN  WHEN 

THEY  SAW  one" Fcicing  paQC      8 

"  THE  WHOLE  TROOP  IS  HURRIEDLY  SADDLING"  "  70 

"  THEN  BATHES,  WITH  COLOGNE,  THE  WHITE 
TEMPLES  AND  SOFT,  RIPPLING,  SUNNY 
HAIR  " "  90 

"BACK  COME  THEIR  DAREDEVILS  OF  STUARt's  "  "  110 

"A  CAVALRY  ORDERLY  MAKES  HIS  APPEAR- 
ANCE   AT    THE    DOOU." '*  136 

"  THEN  A  YOUNG  SOLDIER,  IN  HIS  STAFF  UNI- 
FORM, TAKES  THREE  SPRINGING  STEPS, 
AND    IS    AT    HER    SIDE  " "  172 

'•DRAWS    FORTH    HER   PRECIOUS   PICTURE   AND 

LAYS   IT   AT  A   RIVAL's   FEET  " «'  194 


602999 


A    WAR-TIME    WOOING. 


After  months  of  disaster  there  had  come 
authentic  news  of  victory.  All  Union-loving 
men  drew  a  long  breath  of  relief  when  it  was 
certain  that  Lee  had  given  up  the  field  and  fallen 
back  across  the  Potomac.  The  newsboys,  yelling 
through  the  crowded  streets  in  town,  and  the 
evening  trains  arriving  from  the  neighboring 
city  were  besieged  by  eager  buyers  of  the  "ex- 
tras," giving  lists  of  the  killed  and  wounded. 
Just  at  sunset  of  this  late  September  day  a  tall 
young  girl,  in  deep  mourning,  stood  at  a  suburban 
station  clinging  to  the  arm  of  a  sad,  stern-featured 
old  man.  People  eyed  them  with  respect  and 
sympathy,  not  unmixed  with  rural  curiosity,  for 
Doctor  Warren  was  known  and  honored  by  one 
and  all.  A  few  months  agone  his  only  son  had 
1 


2  A  WAE-TIME    WOOING. 

been  brought  home,  shot  to  death  at  the  head  of 
his  regiment,  and  was  laid  in  his  soldier  grave  in 
their  shaded  churchyard.  It  was  a  bitter  trial, 
but  the  old  man  bore  up  sturdily.  He  was  an 
eager  patriot ;  he  had  no  other  son  to  send  to  the 
front  and  was  himself  too  old  to  serve;  it  had 
pleased  God  to  demand  his  first-born  in  sacrifice 
upon  his  country's  altar,  and  though  it  crushed 
his  heart  it  could  not  kill  his  loyalty  and  devo- 
tion. His  whole  soul  seemed  with  the  army  in 
Virginia;  he  had  nothing  but  scorn  for  those 
who  lagged  at  home,  nothing  but  enthusiastic 
faith  in  every  man  who  sought  the  battle-front,  and 
so  it  happened  that  he  almost  welcomed  the  indica- 
tions that  told  him  his  daughter's  heart  was  going 
fast — given  in  return  for  that  of  a  soldier  lover. 
For  a  moment  it  had  dazed  him.  She  was  still 
so  young — so  much  a  child  in  his  fond  eyes — still- 
his  sweet-faced,  sunny-haired  baby  Bess.  He 
could  hardly  realize  she  was  eighteen  even  when 
with  blushing  cheeks  she  came  to  show  him  the 
photograph  of  a  manly,  gallant -looldng  young 
soldier  in  the  uniform  of  a  lieutenant  of  infantry. 
Strange  as  the  story  may  seem  to-day,  there  was 
at  the  time  nothing  very  surprising  about  its  most 
salient  feature — she  and  her  hiero  had  never  met. 


A  WAE-TIME   WOOING.  3 

With  other  gMs  she  had  joined  a  "  Soldiers' 
Aid  Society ;"  had  wrought  with  devoted  though 
misguided  diligence  in  the  manufacture  of  "  Hav- 
elocks"  that  were  bearers  of  much  sentiment 
but  no  especial  benefit  to  the  recipients  at  the 
front ;  and  like  many  of  her  companions  she  had 
slipped  her  name  and  address  into  one  of  these 
soon-discarded  cap  covers.  As  luck  would  have 
it,  their  package  of  "  Havelocks,"  "  housewives," 
needle-cases,  mittens  (with  trigger  finger  duly 
provided  for),  ear-muffs,  wristlets,  knitted  socks, 
and  such  things,  worn  by  the  "  boys  "  their  first 
winter  in  Virginia,  but  discarded  for  the  regula- 
tion outfit  thereafter,  fell  to  the  lot  of  the  — th 
Massachusetts  Infantry,  and  a  courteous  letter 
from  the  adjutant  told  of  its  distribution.  Bessie 
Warren  was  secretary  of  the  society,  and  the 
secretary  was  instructed  to  write  to  the  adju- 
tant and  say  how  gratified  they  were  to  find 
their  efforts  so  kindly  appreciated.  More  than 
one  of  the  girls  wished  that  she  were  secretary 
just  then,  and  all  of  them  hoped  the  adjutant 
would  answer.  He  did,  and  sent,  moreover,  a 
photographic  group  of  several  officers  taken 
at  regimental  headquarters.  Each  figure  was 
numbered,  and   on  the  back  was  an  explana- 


4  A  WAR-TIME   WOOING. 

tion  setting  forth  the  names  of  the  officers,  the 
item  which  each  had  received  as  his  share,  and, 
where  it  was  known,  the  name  of  the  fair  man- 
ufacturer. The  really  useful  items,  it  would 
seem,  had  been  handed  to  the  enlisted  men,  and 
the  officers  had  reserved  for  themselves  only  such 
articles  as  exj^erience  had  proved  to  be  of  no 
practical  value.  The  six  in  the  picture  had  all 
chosen  "  Havelocks,"  and  opposite  the  name  of 
Bessie  "Warren  was  that  of  Second  Lieutenant  Paul 
Eevere  Abbot.  Eeference  to  the  "  group  "  again 
developed  the  fact  that  Mr.  Abbot  was  decided- 
ly the  handsomest  soldier  of  the  party — tall,  slen- 
der, youthful,  with  clear-cut  and  resolute  feat- 
ures and  a  decidedly  firm,  solid  loii  about  him 
that  was  distinguishable  in  a  group  of  decided- 
ly distinguished -looking  men.  There  followed 
much  laugliing  talk  and  speculation  and  theory 
among  the  girls,  but  the  secretary  was  instructed 
to  write  another  letter  of  thanks,  and  did  so  very 
charmingly,  and  mention  was  made  of  the  cir- 
cumstance that  several  of  their  number  had 
brothers  or  cousins  at  the  front.  Then  some  of 
the  society  had  happened,  too,  to  have  a  photo- 
graph taken  in  the  quaint  uniform,  with  cap  and 
apron,  which  they  had  worn  at  a  recently  given 


A  WAK-TIME   WOOING.  5 

"Soldiers'  Fair,"  and  one  of  their  number — not 
Miss  Warren — sent  a  copy  of  this  to  the  camp  of 
the  — th  Massachusetts.  Central  figure  in  this 
group  was  Bessie  Warren,  unquestionably  the 
lovehest  girl  among  them  all,  and  one  day  there 
came  to  her  a  single  photograph,  a  still  handsomer 
picture  of  Mr.  Paul  Kevere  Abbot,  and  a  letter  in 
a  hand  somewhat  stiff  and  cramped,  in  which 
the  writer  apologized  for  the  appearance  of  the 
scrawl,  explained  that  his  hand  had  been  injured 
while  practising  fencing  with  a  comrade,  but 
that  having  seen  her  picture  in  the  group  he 
could  not  but  congratulate  himself  on  having  re- 
ceived a  "Havelock"  from  hands  so  fair,  could 
not  resist  the  impulse  to  write  and  personally 
thank  her,  and  then  to  inquire  if  she  was  a  sister 
of  Guthrie  Warren,  whom  he  had  known  and 
looked  up  to  at  Harvard  as  a  "  soph "  looks  up 
to  a  senior;  and  he  enclosed  his  picture,  which 
would  perhaps  recall  him  to  Guthrie's  mind. 

Her  mother  had  been  dead  many  years,  and 
Bessie  showed  this  letter  to  her  father,  and  with 
his  fuU  consent  and  with  much  sisterly  pride 
wrote  that  Guthrie  was  indeed  her  brother ;  that 
he,  too,  had  taken  up  arms  for  his  country  and 
was  at  the  front  with  his  regiment,  though  no- 


6  A   WAE-TIME    WOOING. 

where  near  their  friends  of  the  — th  Massachu- 
setts (who  were  watching  the  fords  of  the  Po- 
tomac up  near  Edward's  Ferr}^),  and  that  she 
had  sent  the  photograph  to  him. 

One  letter  seemed  to  lead  to  another,  and  those 
from  the  Potomac  speedily  became  very  interest- 
ing, especially  when  the  papers  mentioned  how 
gallantly  Lieutenant  Paul  Abbot  had  behaved  at 
Ball's  Bluff  and  how  hard  he  had  tried  to  save 
his  colonel,  who  was  taken  prisoner.  Guthrie  re- 
turned the  photograph  to  Bess,  with  a  letter 
which  the  doctor  read  attentively.  He  remem- 
bered Paul  Abbot  as  being  a  leader  in  the  young- 
er set  at  Harvard,  and  was  delighted  to  hear  of 
him  "  under  the  colors,"  where  every  Union-lov- 
ing man  should  be — where,  as  he  recalled  him,  he 
knew  Abbot  must  be,  for  he  belonged  to  one  of  the 
oldest  and  best  families  in  all  Massachusetts ;  he 
was  a  gentleman  born  and  bred,  and  would  make 
a  name  for  himseK  in  this  war.  Guthrie  only 
wished  there  were  some  of  that  stamp  in  his  own 
regiment,  but  he  feared  that  there  were  few  who 
had  the  stuff  of  which  the  Abbots  were  made — 
there  were  too  many  ward  politicians.  "But 
I've  cast  my  lot  with  it  and  shall  see  it  through," 
wrote  Guthrie.    Poor  fellow !  poor  father !  poor 


A  WAR-TIME   WOOING.  7 

loving-liearted  Bessie !  The  first  volley  from  the 
crouching  gray  ranks  in  those  dim  woods  back 
of  Seven  Pines  sent  the  ward  politicians  in  mad 
rush  to  the  rear,  and  when  Guthrie  Warren 
sprang  for  the  colors,  and  waved  them  high  in 
air,  and  shouted  for  the  men  to  rally  and  follow 
him,  it  was  all  in  vain — all  as  vain  as  the  ejffort 
to  stop  the  firing  made  by  the  chivalric  Virginia 
colonel,  who  leaped  forward,  with  a  few  daring 
men  at  his  back,  to  capture  the  resolute  Yankee 
and  his  precious  flag.  They  got  them ;  but  the 
life-blood  Was  welling  from  the  hero's  breast  as 
they  raised  him  gently  from  the  silken  folds. 
The  Yirginians  knew  a  brave  man  when  they 
saw  one,  and  they  carried  him  tenderly  into  their 
lines  and  wrote  his  last  messages,  and  that  night 
they  sent  the  honored  body  back  to  his  brigade, 
and  so  the  stricken  father  found  and  brought 
home  all  that  was  left  of  the  gallant  boy  in  whom 
his  hopes  were  centred. 

For  a  time  Bessie's  letters  languished  after 
this,  though  she  had  written  nearly  every  week 
during  the  winter  and  early  spring.  Lieutenant 
Abbot,  on  the  other  hand,  appeared  to  redouble 
his  deep  interest.  His  letters  were  full  of  sym- 
pathy— of  a  tenderness  that  seemed  to  be  with 


8  A   WAE-TIME   TVOOING. 

difficulty  repressed.  She  read  these  to  her  mourn- 
ing father — they  were  so  full  of  sorrow  for  the 
bitter  loss  that  had  befallen  them,  so  rich  with 
soldierly  sentiment  and  with  appreciation  of 
Guthrie's  heroic  character  and  death,  so  welcome 
with  reminiscence  of  him.  ISTot  that  he  and  Ab- 
bot had  met  on  the  Peninsula — it  was  the  unhap- 
py lot  of  the  Massachusetts  — th  to  be  held  with 
McDowell's  corps  in  front  of  Washington  while 
their  comrades  were  doing  sharp,  soldierly  work 
down  along  the  Chickahominy.  But  even  where 
they  were,  said  these  letters,  men  talked  by  the 
hour  of  how  Guthrie  "Warren  had  died  at  Seven 
Pines  —  how  daring  Phil  Kearney  himself  had 
ridden  up  and  held  forth — 

"The  one  hand  still  left," 

and  asked  him  his  name  just  before  the  final  ad- 
vance on  the  thicket.  One  letter  contained  a  copy 
of  some  soldierly  verses  her  Massachusett's  corre- 
spondent had  written — "Warren's  Death  at  Seven 
Pines  " — in  which  he  placed  him  peer  with  War- 
ren who  fell  at  Bunker  Hill.  The  verses  thrilled 
through  her  heart  and  soul  and  brought  a  storm 
of  tears — tears  of  mingled  pride  and  love  and 
hopeless  sorrow  from  her  aging  father's  eyes. 


s^^^^z^y^^^  ^ 


A   WAR-TIME   WOOING.  9 

No  wonder  she  soon  began  to  write  more  fre- 
quently. These  letters  from  Virginia  were  the 
greatest  joy  her  father  had,  she  told  herself,  and 
though  she  wrote  through  a  mist  that  blurred 
the  page,  she  soon  grew  conscious  of  a  strange, 
shy  sense  of  comfort,  of  a  thrilling  little  spring 
of  glad  emotion,  of  tender,  shrinking,  sensitive 
delight,  and  by  the  time  the  hot  summer  was 
waning  and  August  was  at  hand  this  unseen  sol- 
dier, who  had  only  shared  her  thoughts  before, 
took  complete  and  utter  control.  Why  tell  the 
old,  old  story  in  its  every  stage  ?  It  was  with  a 
new,  wild  fear  at  heart  she  heard  of  Stonewall 
Jackson's  leap  for  the  Eapidan,  of  the  grapple 
at  Cedar  Mountain  where  the  Massachusetts  men 
fought  sternly  and  met  with  cruel  loss.  Her 
father  raged  with  anxiety  when  the  news  came 
of  the  withdrawal  from  the  Peninsula,  the  tri- 
umphant rush  of  Lee  and  Longstreet  on  Jack- 
son's trail,  of  the  ill-starred  but  heroic  struo^gfle 
made  by  Pope  along  the  banks  of  Bull  Kun.  A 
few  days  and  nights  of  dread  suspense  and  then 
came  tidings  that  Lee  was  across  the  Potomac 
and  McClellan  marching  to  meet  him.  Two  more 
letters  reached  her  from  the  marching  — th 
Massachusetts,  and  a  telegram  from  Washington 


10  A   WAK-TIME  WOOING. 

telling  her  where  to  write,  and  saying,  ^'  All  well 
so  far  as  I  am  concerned,"  at  which  the  doctor 
shook  his  head — it  sounded  so  selfish  at  such  a 
time ;  it  grated  on  his  patriotic  ear,  and  it  wasn't 
such  as  he  thought  an  Abbot  ought  to  telegraph. 
But  then  he  was  hurried ;  thej  probably  only  let 
him  fall  out  of  ranks  a  moment  as  they  marched 
through  "Washington.  And  then  the  newspapers 
began  to  teem  with  details  of  the  fierce  battles 
of  the  last  three  days  of  August,  and  he  forgave 
him  and  fathomed  the  secret  in  his  daughter's 
breast  as  she  stood  breathing  very  quicklj^,  her 
cheek  flushing,  her  eyes  filling,  and  listening 
while  he  read  how  Lieutenant  Abbot  had  led  the 
charge  of  the  — th  Massachusetts  and  seized  the 
battle-fiag  of  one  of  Starke's  brigades  at  that 
bristling  parapet — the  old,  unfinished  railway 
grade  to  the  north  of  Groveton.  JS'either  father 
nor  daughter  uttered  a  word  upon  the  subject. 
The  old  man  simply  opened  his  arms  and  took 
her  to  his  heart,  where,  overcome  with  emotion, 
mingling  pride  and  grief  and  anxiety  and  tender, 
budding  love,  she  burst  into  tears  and  hid  her 
burning  face. 

Then  came  the  news  of  fierce  fighting  at  South 
Mountain,  where  the  — th   Massachusetts  was 


A   WAE-TIME   WOOING.  11 

prominent ;  then  of  the  Antietam,  where  twice 
it  charged  through  that  fearful  stretch  of  corn- 
field and  had  but  a  handful  left  to  guard  the  rid- 
dled colors  when  nightfall  came,  and  then  —  si- 
lence and  suspense.  JSTo  letters,  no  news — nothing. 
Her  white,  wan  face  and  pleading  eyes  were 
too  much  for  the  father  to  see.  Though  no  for- 
mal offer  of  marriage  had  been  made,  though 
the  word  "  love "  had  hardly  been  written  in 
those  glowing  letters,  he  reasoned  rightly  that 
love  alone  could  prompt  a  man  to  write  day  af- 
ter day  in  all  the  excitements  and  vicissitudes  of 
stirring  campaign.  As  for  the  rest — was  he  not 
an  Abbot?  Did  not  Guthrie  know  and  honor 
him  ?  "Was  he  not  a  gallant  officer  as  well  as  a 
thoroughbred  gentleman?  No  time  for  wooing 
now!  That  would  come  with  peace.  He  had 
even  given  his  consent  when  she  blu shingly 
asked  him  if  she  might —  "  Well,  there  !  read  it 
yom-self,"  she  said,  putting  the  closely  written 
page  into  his  hands.  It  was  an  eager  plea  for 
her  picture — and  the  photograph  was  sent.  He 
chose  the  one  himself,  a  dainty  "  vignette "  on 
card,  for  it  reminded  him  of  the  mother  who  was 
gone.  It  was  fitting,  he  told  himself,  that  his 
daughter — her  sainted  mother's  image,  Guthrie's 


12  A  WAR-TIME   WOOING. 

sister — should  love  a  gallant  soldier.  He  gloried 
in  the  accounts  of  Paul  Abbot's  bravery,  and 
longed  to  meet  him  and  take  him  by  the  hand. 
The  time  would  come.  He  could  wait  and  watch 
over  the  little  girl  who  was  drawing  them  togeth- 
er.   He  asked  no  questions.    It  would  all  be  right. 

And  now  they  stood  together  at  the  station 
waiting  for  the  evening  cars  and  the  latest  news 
from  the  front.  It  lacked  but  a  few  minutes  of 
train  time  when,  with  sad  and  sympathetic  face, 
the  station-agent  approached,  a  fateful  brown  en- 
velope in  his  hand.  The  doctor  turned  quickly 
at  his  daughter's  gasping  exclamation, 

"  Pajya  !  Mr.  Hardy  has  a  telegram !" 

Despite  every  effort  his  hand  and  lip  trembled 
violently  as  he  took  it  and  tore  it  open.  It  was 
brief  enough  —  an  answer  to  his  repeated  de- 
spatches to  the  "War  Department. 

''Lieutenant  Paul  K.  Abbot,  dangerously 
wounded,  is  at  field  hospital  near  Frederick, 
Maryland." 

The  doctor  turned  to  her  pale,  pleading  face, 
tears  welling  in  his  eyes. 

"  Be  brave,  my  little  girl,"  he  murmured,  bro- 
kenly.   "  He  is  wounded,  but  we  can  go  to  him  at 


A  WAE-TIME   WOOING.  13 

Nearly  sunset  again,  and  tlie  South  Mountain 
is  throwing  its  dark  shadow  clear  across  the 
Monocacy.  The  day  has  been  warm,  cloudless, 
beautiful,  and,  now  that  evening  is  approaching, 
the  sentries  begin  to  saunter  out  from  the  deeper 
shade  that  has  lured  them  during  the  afternoon 
and  to  give  a  more  soldierly  tone  to  the  picture. 
There  are  not  many  of  them,  to  be  sure,  and  this 
is  evidently  the  encampment  of  no  large  com- 
mand of  troops,  despite  the  number  of  big  white 
tents  pitched  in  the  orchard,  and  the  score  of 
white-topped  army-wagons,  the  half-dozen  yel- 
low ambulances,  and  the  scraggy  lot  of  mules 
in  the  pasture -lot  across  the  dusty  highway. 
The  stream  is  close  at  hand,  only  a  stone's-throw 
from  the  picturesque  old  farmhouse,  and  the  ani- 
mated talk  among  the  groups  of  bathers  has 
that  peculiarly  blasphemous  flavor  which  seems 
inseparable  from  the  average  teamster.  That 
the  camp  is  under  mihtary  tutelage  is  apparent 
from  the  fact  that  a  tall  young  man  in  the  loose, 
ill-fitting  blue  fatigue-dress  of  our  volunteers, 
with  war-worn  belts  and  a  business-like  look 
to  the  long  "Springfield"  over  his  shoulder, 
comes  striding  down  to  the  banlv  and  shouts 
forthwith, 


14  A   WAK-TIME  WOOING. 

"  You  fellows  are  making  too  much  noise  there, 
and  the  doctor  wants  you  to  dry  up." 

''Tell  him  to  send  us  some  towels,  then," 
growls  one  of  the  number,  a  black-browed,  surly- 
looking  fellow  with  ponderous,  bent  shoulders  and 
a  slouching  mien.  Some  of  his  companions  tit- 
ter encouragingly,  others  are  silent.  The  ser- 
geant of  the  guard  flushes  angrily  and  turns  on 
the  speaker. 

"  You  know  very  well  what  I  mean,  Eix.  I'm 
using  your  own  slang  in  speaking  to  you  because 
you  Avouldn't  comprehend  decent  language.  It 
isn't  the  first  time  you've  been  warned  not  to 
make  such  a  row  here  close  to  a  lot  of  wounded 
and  dying  men.  jN'ow  I  mean  business.  Quit  it 
or  3^ou'U  get  into  trouble." 

"What  authority  have  you  got,  I'd  like  to 
know,"  is  the  sneering  rejoinder.  "You're  noth- 
ing but  a  hospital  guard,  and  have  no  business 
interfering  with  us.  I  ain't  under  no  doctor's 
orders.  You  go  back  to  your  stiffs  and  leave 
live  men  alone." 

The  sergeant  is  about  to  speak,  when  the 
bathers,  glancing  up  at  the  bank,  see  him  sudden- 
ly face  to  his  left  and  raise  his  hand  to  his  shoul- 
dered rifle  in  salute.     The  next  instant  a  tall 


A   WAE-TIME   WOOING.  15 

young  ofScer,  leaning  heavily  on  a  cane  and  with 
his  sword-arm  in  a  sling,  appears  at  the  sergeant's 
side. 

"  Who  is  the  man  who  questions  your  author- 
ity?" he  asks,  in  a  voice  singularly  calm  and 
deliberate. 

There  is  a  moment's  awkward  silence.  The 
sergeant  has  the  reluctance  of  his  class  to  get- 
ting a  fellow-soldier  into  a  scrape.  The  half- 
dressed  bathers  stand  uncomfortably  about  the 
shore  and  look  blankly  from  one  to  another. 
The  man  addressed  as  Eix  is  busily  occupied  in 
pulling  on  a  pair  of  soldier  brogans,  and  tying, 
with  great  deliberation,  the  leather  strings. 

Casting  his  clear  eyes  over  the  group,  as  he 
steps  forward  to  the  edge,  the  young  officer 
speaks  again : 

"  You're  here,  are  you,  Eix.  That  leaves  little 
doubt  as  to  the  man  even  if  I  were  not  sure  of 
the  voice.  I  could  hear  your  brutal  swearing, 
sir,  loud  over  the  prayers  the  chaplain  was  say- 
ing for  the  dead.  Have  you  no  sense  of  decency 
ataU?" 

"  How'n  hell  did  I  know  there  was  any  pray- 
in'  going  on  ?"  muttered  Eix,  bending  his  scowl- 
ing brows  down  over  his  shoe  and  tugging  sav- 
agely at  the  string. 


16  A   WAK-TIME   WOOING. 

"  What  was  that  remark,  Eix  ?"  asks  the  lieu- 
tenant, his  grasp  tightening  on  the  stick. 

'No  answer. 

"Eix,  drop  that  shoestring;  stand  attention, 
and  look  at  me,"  says  the  officer,  very  quietly, 
but  with  setting  teeth  that  no  man  fails  to  note. 
Eix  slowly  and  sullenly  obeys. 

"  What  was  the  remark  you  made  just  now  ?" 
is  again  the  question. 

'■  I  said  I  didn't  know  they  were  praying," 
growls  Eix,  finding  he  has  to  face  the  music. 

"  That  sounds  very  little  like  your  words,  but 
— let  it  go.  You  knew  very  well  that  men  were 
dying  here  right  within  earshot  when  you  were 
making  the  air  blue  Avith  blasphemy,  and  when 
better  men  svere  reverently  silent.  It  is  the 
third  time  you  have  been  reprimanded  in  a  week. 
I  shall  see  to  it  that  you  are  sent  back  to  your 
company  forthwith." 

"  ]Srot  while  Lieutenant  Hollins  is  quartermas- 
ter you  won't,"  is  the  insubordinate  reply,  and 
even  the  teamsters  look  scared  as  they  glance 
from  the  scowling,  hanging  face  of  Eix  to  the 
clear-cut  features  of  the  officer,  and  mark  the 
change  that  sweeps  over  the  latter.  His  e3^es 
seem  to  flash  fire,  and  his  pallid  face — thin  with 


A   WAK-TIME   WOOING.  17 

suffering  and  loss  of  blood — flushes  despite  his 
physical  weakness.  His  handsome  mouth  sets 
like  a  steel-trap. 

"  Sergeant,  get  two  of  your  men  and  put  that 
fellow  under  guard,"  he  orders.  ^'Stay  where 
you  are,  Eix,  until  they  come  for  you."  His 
voice  is  low  and  stern ;  he  does  not  condescend 
to  raise  it  for  such  occasion,  though  there  is  a 
something  about  it  that  tells  the  soldier-ear  it 
can  ring  with  command  where  ring  is  needed. 

"I'd  like  to  know  what  I've  done,"  mutters 
Eix,  angrily  kicking  at  the  pebbles  at  his  feet. 

No  answer.  The  lieutenant  has  walked  back 
a  pace  and  has  seated  himself  on  a  little  bench. 
Another  officer — a  gray -haired  and  distinguished- 
looking  man,  with  silver  eagles  on  his  shoulders — 
is  rapidly  nearing  him  and  reaches  the  bank  jast 
in  time  to  catch  the  next  words.  He  could  have 
heard  them  farther  back,  for  Eix  is  in  a  fury 
now,  and  shouts  aloud : 

"  If  you  knew  your  own  interests — knew  half 
that  I  know  about  your  affairs.  Lieutenant  Ab- 
bot— you'd  think  twice  before  you  ordered  me 
under  arrest." 

The  lieutenant  half  starts  from  the  bench,  but 
his  self-control  is  strong. 


18  A  WAR-TIME  wooma. 

"  You  are  simply  adding  to  your  insubordina- 
tioHj  sir,"  he  says,  coldly.  "  Take  your  prisoner, 
sergeant.  You  men  are  all  witnesses  to  this  lan- 
guage." 

And  muttering  much  to  himself,  Teamster  Eix 
is  marched  slowly  away,  leaving  an  audience 
somewhat  mystified.  The  colonel  stands  look- 
ing after  him  with  a  puzzled  and  astonished  face ; 
the  men  begin  slowly  to  edge  away,  and  then 
Mr.  Abbot  wearily  rises  and — again  he  flushes 
red  when  he  finds  his  superior  officer  facing  him 
at  not  three  paces  distance. 

"  What  on  earth  does  that  mean.  Abbot  ?"  asks 
the  colonel.     "  Who  is  that  man  ?" 

"One  of  the  regimental  teamsters,  sir.  He 
came  here  with  the  wounded,  and  there  appears 
to  have  been  no  opportunity  of  sending  him  back 
now  that  the  regiment  is  over  in  the  Shenandoah. 
At  all  events,  he  has  been  allowed  to  loaf  around 
here  for  some  time,  and  you  probably  heard  him 
swearing." 

"  I  did ;  that's  what  brought  me  out  of  the 
house.  But  what  does  he  mean  by  threatening 
you  ?" 

"  I  have  no  idea,  sir ;  or,  rather,  I  have  an  idea, 
but  the  matter  is  of  no  consequence  whatever, 


A  WAE-TIME   WOOING.  19 

and  only  characteristic  of  the  man.  He  is  a 
scoundrel,  I  suspect,  and  I  wonder  that  HoUins 
has  kept  him  so  long." 

"  Do  you  know  that  IloUins  hasn't  turned  up 
yet«" 

"  So  I  heard  this  morning,  colonel,  and  yet 
you  saw  him  the  night  of  the  battle,  did  you 
not  ?" 

"  N'ot  the  night  after,  but  the  night  before. 
We  left  him  with  the  wagons  when  we  marched 
to  the  ford.  I  was  knocked  off  my  horse  about 
one  in  the  afternoon,  just  north  of  the  cornfield, 
and  they  got  me  back  to  the  wagons  with  this 
left  shoulder  all  out  of  shape — collar-bone  bro- 
ken ;  and  he  wasn't  there  then,  and  hadn't  been 
seen  since  daybreak.  Somebody  said  he  was  so 
cut  up  when  you  were  hit  at  the  Gap.  I  didn't 
know  you  were  such  friends." 

"  Well,  we've  known  each  other  a  long  time — 
were  together  at  Harvard  and  moved  in  the 
same  set ;  but  there  was  never  any  intimacy, 
colonel." 

"  I  see,  I  see,"  says  the  older  officer,  reflective- 
ly. "  He  was  a  stranger  to  me  when  I  joined  the 
regiment  and  found  him  quartermaster.  He  was 
Colonel  Eaymond's  choice,  and  you  know  that  in 


20  A   WAK-TIME   WOOING. 

succeeding  to  his  place  I  preferred  to  make  no 
changes.  But  I  sa}^  to  you  now  that  I  wish 
I  had.  Ilollins  has  failed  to  come  up  to  the 
standard  as  a  campaign  quartermaster,  and  the 
men  have  suffered  through  his  neglect  more  than 
once.  Then  he  stayed  behind  when  we  marched 
through  Washington — a  thing  he  never  satisfac- 
torily explained  to  me — and  I  had  serious  thoughts 
of  reUeving  him  at  Frederick  and  appointing  you 
to  act  in  his  stead.  'Now  the  fortune  of  war  has 
settled  both  questions.  Hollins  is  missing,  and 
3^ou  are  a  captain  or  will  be  within  the  month. 
Have  you  heard  from  Wendell  ?" 

''  His  arm  is  gone,  sir ;  amputated  above  the 
elbow;  and  he  has  decided  to  resign.  Foster 
commands  the  company,  but  I  shall  go  forward 
just  as  soon  as  the  doctor  will  let  me." 

'•  TTe'll  go  together.  He  says  I  can  stand  the 
ride  in  ten  days  or  two  weeks,  but  neither  of 
your  wounds  has  healed  3^et.  How's  the  leg? 
That  must  have  been  a  narrow  squeak." 

"  No  bones  were  touched,  sir.  It  was  only 
that  I  lost  so  much  blood  from  the  two.  It  was 
the  major  who  reported  me  to  you  as  danger- 
ously wounded,  was  it  not  ?" 

''  Yes  ;  but  when  he  left  3^ou  there  seemed  to 


A   WAE-TIME   WOOING.  21 

be  very  little  chance.  You  were  senseless  and 
exhausted,  and  with  two  rifle  bullets  through 
you  what  was  to  be  expected  ?  He  couldn't  tell 
that  they  happened  to  graze  no  artery,  and  the 
surgeon  was  too  busy  elsewhere." 

"  It  gave  them  a  scare  at  home,"  said  Abbot, 
smiling ;  "  and  my  father  and  sister  were  on  the 
point  of  starting  for  Washington  when  I  man- 
aged to  send  word  to  them  that  the  wounds  were 
shght.  I  want  to  get  back  to  the  regiment  be- 
fore they  find  out  that  they  were  comparatively 
serious,  because  the  family  will  be  importuning 
the  Secretary  of  War  to  send  me  home  on  leave." 

"  And  any  man  of  your  age,  with  such  a  home, 
and  a  sweetheart,  ought  to  be  eager  to  go.  Why 
not  go,  Abbot  ?  There  will  be  no  more  fighting 
for  months  now;  McClellan  has  let  them  slip. 
You  could  have  a  fortnight  in  Boston  as  well  as 
not,  and  wear  your  captain's  bars  for  the  first 
time.  I  fancy  I  know  how  proud  Miss  Winthrop 
would  be  to  sew  them  on  for  you." 

The  colonel  is  leaning  against  the  trunk  of  a 
spreading  oak-tree  as  he  speaks.  The  sun  is 
down,  and  twilight  closing  around  them.  Mr. 
Abbot,  who  had  somewhat  wearily  reseated  him- 
self on  the  rude  wooden  bench  a  moment  before. 


22  A  WAE-TIME   WOOING. 

has  turned  gradually  away  from  the  sjDeaker 
during  these  words,  and  is  gazing  dow^n  the  beau- 
tiful valley.  Lights  are  beginning  to  twinkle 
here  and  there  in  the  distance,  and  the  gleam  of 
one  or  two  tiny  fires  tells  of  other  camps  not  far 
away.  A  dim  mist  of  dust  is  rising  from  the 
highroad  close  to  the  stream,  and  a  quaint  old 
Maryland  cabriolet,  drawn  by  a  venerable  gray 
horse,  is  slowly  coming  around  the  bend.  The 
soldiers  grouped  about  the  gateway,  back  at  the 
farmhouse,  turn  and  look  curiously  towards  the 
hollow-sounding  hoof-beats,  but  neither  the  col- 
onel nor  his  junior  officer  seems  to  notice  them. 
Abbot's  thoughts  are  evidently  far  away,  and  he 
makes  no  reply.  The  surgeon  who  sanctions  his 
return  to  field  duty  yet  a  while  would,  to  all  ap- 
pearances, be  guilty  of  a  professional  blunder. 
The  lieutenant's  face  is  pale  and  thin ;  his  hand 
looks  very  fragile  and  fearfully  white  in  contrast 
with  the  bronze  of  his  cheek.  He  leans  his  head 
upon  his  hand  as  he  gazes  away  into  the  distance, 
and  the  colonel  stands  attentively  regarding  him. 
He  recalls  the  young  fellow's  gallant  and  spirited 
conduct  at  Manassas  and  South  Mountain;  his 
devotion  to  his  soldier  duty  since  the  day  he  first 
"  reported."    If  ever  an  officer  deserved  a  month 


A  WAE-TIME  WOOING.  23 

at  home,  in  which  to  recuperate  from  the  shock 
of  painful  wounds,  surely  that  officer  was  Abbot. 
The  colonel  well  knows  with  what  pride  and 
blessing  his  revered  old  father  would  welcome 
his  coming — ^the  joy  it  would  bring  to  the  house- 
hold at  his  home.  It  is  an  open  secret,  too,  that 
he  is  engaged  to  Genevieve  AYinthrop,  and  surely 
a  man  must  want  to  see  the  lady  of  his  love.  He 
well  remembers  how  she  came  with  other  ladies 
to  attend  the  presentation  of  colors  to  the  regi- 
ment, and  how  handsome  and  distinguished  a 
woman  she  looked.  The  Common  was  thronged 
with  Boston's  "  oldest  and  best "  that  day,  and 
Colonel  Eaymond's  speech  of  acceptance  made 
eloquent  reference  to  the  fact  that  of  all  the 
grand  old  names  that  had  been  prominent  in  the 
colonial  history  of  the  commonwealth  not  one 
was  absent  from  the  muster-roll  of  the  regiment 
it  was  his  high  honor  to  command.  The  Ab- 
bots and  Winthrops  had  a  history  coeval  with 
that  of  the  colony,  and  were  long  and  intimately 
acquainted.  When,  therefore,  it  was  rumored 
that  Genevieve  Winthrop  was  to  marry  Paul 
Abbot  "  as  soon  as  the  war  was  over,"  peojDle 
simply  took  it  as  a  matter  of  course — they  had 
been  engaged  ever  since  they  were  trundled  side 


24  A  WAR-TIME   WOOING. 

by  side  in  the  primitive  baby-carriages  of  the 
earhest  forties.  This  reflection  leads  tlie  colonel 
to  the  realization  of  the  fact  that  they  must  be 
very  much  of  an  age.  Indeed,  had  he  not  heard 
it  whispered  that  Miss  Winthrop  was  the  senior 
by  nearly  a  year  ?  Abbot  looked  3"oung,  almost 
boyish,  when  he  was  first  commissioned  in  May 
of  '61,  but  he  had  aged  rapidly,  and  was  greatly 
changed.  He  had  not  shaved  since  June,  and  a 
beard  of  four  months'  growth  had  covered  his 
face.  There  are  lines  in  his  forehead,  too,  that 
one  could  not  detect  a  year  before.  "Why  should 
not  the  young  fellow  have  a  few  weeks'  leave, 
thinks  the  colonel.  The  regiment  is  now  in  camp 
over  beyond  Harper's  Ferry,  greatly  diminished 
in  numbers  and  waiting  for  its  promised  recruits. 
It  is  evident  that  McClellan  has  no  intention  of 
attacking  Lee  again ;  he  is  content  with  having 
persuaded  him  to  retire  from  Maryland.  Noth- 
ing wiU  be  so  apt  to  build  up  the  strength  and 
spirits  of  the  new  captain  as  to  send  him  home 
to  be  honized  and  petted  as  he  deserves  to  be. 
Doubtless  all  the  languor  and  sadness  the  colonel 
has  noted  in  him  of  late  is  but  the  outward  and 
visible  sign  of  a  longing  for  home  which  he  is 
ashamed  to  confess. 


A   WAR-TIME   WOOING.  25 

"  Abbot,"  he  says  again,  suddenly  and  abruptly, 
"I'm  going  back  to  Frederick  this  evening  as 
soon  as  the  medical  director  is  ready,  and  I'm 
going  to  get  him  to  give  you  a  certificate  on 
which  to  base  application  for  a  month's  leave. 
Don't  say  no.  I  understand  your  scru23les,  but 
go  you  shaU.  You  richly  deserve  it  and  will  be 
all  the  better  for  it.  ]S'ow  your  people  won't 
have  to  be  importuning  the  War  Department; 
the  leave  shall  come  from  this  end  of  the  line." 

The  heutenant  seems  about  to  turn  again  as 
though  to  thank  his  commander  when  there 
comes  an  interruption — the  voice  of  the  sergeant 
of  the  guard  close  at  hand.  He  holds  forth  a 
card ;  salutes,  and  says  : 

"  A  gentleman  inquiring  for  Colonel  Putnam." 

And  the  gentleman  is  but  a  stejD  or  two  be- 
hind— an  aging  man  with  silvery  hair  and  beard, 
with  lines  of  sorrow  in  his  refined  and  scholarly 
face,  and  fatigue  and  anxiety  easily  discernible 
in  his  bent  figure — a  gentleman  evidently,  and  the 
colonel  turns  courteously  to  greet  him. 

"  Doctor  Warren !"  he  savs,  interrogativel}^,  as 
he  holds  forth  his  hand. 

"Yes,  colonel,  they  told  me  you  were  about 
going  back  to  Frederick,  and  I  desired  to  see  you 


26  A   WAE-TIME   WOOING. 

at  once.  I  am  greatly  interested  in  a  young  offi- 
cer of  your  regiment  who  is  here,  wounded ;  he  is 
a  college  friend  of  my  only  son's,  sir — Guthrie 
Warren,  killed  at  Seven  Pines."  The  colonel 
lifts  his  forage  cap  with  one  hand  while  the  other 
more  tightly  clasps  that  of  the  older  man."  I 
hear  that  the  reports  were  exaggerated  and  that 
he  is  able  to  be  about.     It  is  Lieutenant  Abbot." 

"Judge  for  yourself,  doctor,"  is  the  smiling 
reply.     "  Here  he  sits." 

"With  an  eager  light  in  his  eyes  the  old  gen- 
tleman steps  forward  towards  Abbot,  who  is 
slowly  rising  from  the  bench.  He,  too,  court- 
eously raises  his  forage  cap.  In  a  moment  both 
the  doctor's  hands  have  clasped  the  thin,  white 
hand  that  leans  so  heavily  on  the  stick. 

"  My  dear  young  friend !"  he  sa3^s.  "  My  gal- 
lant boy !  Thank  God  it  is  not  what  we  feared !" 
and  his  eyes  are  filling,  his  lip  is  trembling  pain- 
fully. 

"  You  are  very  kind,  sir,"  says  Abbot,  vaguely, 
"I  am  doing  quite  well."  Then  he  pauses. 
There  is  such  yearning  and — something  he  can- 
not fathom  in  the  old  man's  face.  He  feels  that 
he  is  expected  to  say  still  more — that  this  is  not 
the  welcome  looked  for.    "  I  beg  a  thousand  par- 


A  WAE-TDIE   WOOING.  27 

dons,  sir,  perhaps  I  did  not  catch  the  name  aright. 
Did  you  say  Doctor  Warren  ?" 

"Certainly,  B —  Guthrie  Tv^arren's  father — 
you  remember?"  and  the  look  in  the  sad  old 
eyes  is  one  of  strange  perplexity.  "I  cannot 
thank  you  half  enough  for  all  you  have  written 
of  my  boy." 

And  still  there  is  no  sign  of  recognition  in 
Abbot's  face.  He  is  courteous,  sympathetic,  but 
it  is  all  too  evident  that  there  is  somethino: 
grievously  lacking. 

"I  fear  there  is  some  mistake,"  he  gently  says ; 
"  I  have  no  recollection  of  knowin^:  or  writinir  of 
any  one  of  that  name." 

"  Mistake !  Good  God !  How  can  there  be  ?" 
is  the  gasping  response.  The  tired  old  eyes  are 
ablaze  with  grief,  bewilderment,  and  dread  com- 
mingled. "Surely  this  is  Lieutenant  Paul  Ee- 
vere  Abbot — of  the  — th  Massachusetts." 

"  It  certainly  is,  doctor,  but — " 

"  It  surely  is  your  photograph  we  have :  sure- 
ly you  wrote  to — to  us  all  this  last  year — letter 
after  letter  about  my  boy — my  Guthrie." 

There  is  an  instant  of  silence  that  is  almost 
agonizing.  The  colonel  stands  hke  one  in  a  state 
of  shock.     The  old  doctor,  trembhng  from  head 


28  A    WAE-TIME  WOOING. 

to  foot,  looks  with  almost  piteous  entreaty ;  with 
anguish  and  incredulity,  and  half  -  awakened 
wrath,  into  the  pale  and  distressed  features  of 
the  young  soldier. 

"  I  bitterly  grieve  to  have  to  tell  you,  sir,"  is 
the  sorrowful  answer, ''  but  I  know  no  such  name. 
I  have  written  no  such  letters." 

Another  instant,  and  the  old  man  has  dropped 
heavily  upon  the  bench,  and  buried  his  face  in 
his  arms.  But  for  the  colonel  he  might  have 
fallen  prone  to  earth. 


II. 

An  hour  after  sundown  and  the  rattling  old 
cabriolet  has  two  occupants  as  it  drives  back  to 
town.  Colonel  Putnam  comes  forth  with  the  old 
gentleman  w^hom  he  had  so  tenderly  conducted 
to  the  farmhouse  but  a  few  moments  after  the 
strange  scene  out  on  the  bank,  and  is  now  his 
escort  to  Frederick.  The  sergeant  of  the  guard 
has  been  besieged  with  questions,  for  several  of 
the  men  saw  the  doctor  drop  upon  the  bench  and 
w^ere  aware  of  the  melodramatic  nature  of  the 
meeting.  Lieutenant  Abbot  w4th  a  face  paler 
than  before,  with  a  strange  look  of  perplexity 
and  smouldering  wrath  about  his  handsome  eyes, 
has  gone  over  to  his  own  tent,  w^here  the  surgeon 
presently  visits  him.  The  colonel  and  his  civihan 
visitor  are  closeted  together  over  half  an  hour, 
and  the  latter  looks  more  dead  than  alive,  say 
the  men,  as  he  feebly  totters  down  the  steps 
clinging  to  the  colonel's  arm. 

"  What  did  you  say  was  the  name  of  the  officer 


30  A  WAK-TIME  WOOmG. 

Tvho  was  killed— his  son  ?"  asks  one  of  the  guards 
as  he  stands  at  the  entrance  to  the  tent. 

"  AYarren — Guthrie  "Warren,"  answers  the  ser- 
geant, brie%.  "■  I  don't  know  whether  the  old 
man's  crazy  or  not.  He  said  the  lieutenant  had 
been  writing  to  him  for  months  about  his  son, 
and  the  lieutenant  denied  having  written  a  line." 

"  He  lied  then,  by !"  comes  a  savage  growl 

from  within  the  tent.  "  Where  is  the  old  man  ? 
Give  me  a  look  at  him !"  and  the  scowling  face 
of  Eix  makes  its  sudden  appearance  at  the  tent- 
flop,  peering  forth  into  the  fire-hght. 

"  Be  quiet,  Kix,  and  go  back  where  you  belong. 
You've  made  more  than  enough  trouble  to-day," 
is  the  sergeant's  low-toned  order. 

"  I  tell  3^ou  I  only  want  to  see  the  old  man," 
answers  the  teamster,  struggling,  "Don't  you 
threaten  me  with  that  bayonet,  Drake,"  he 
growls  savagely  at  the  sentry,  who  has  thrown 
himself  in  front  of  the  opening.  "  It'll  be  the 
worse  for  you  fellows  that  you  ever  confined  me, 
no  matter  by  whose  order ;  but  as  for  that  stuck- 
up  prig,  by !  you'll  see  soon  enough  what'll 

come  of  Ms  ordering  me  into  the  guard-tent." 

His  voice  is  so  hoarse  and  loud  with  anger 
that  the  colonel's  attention  is  attracted.    He  has 


A  WAR-TIME  WOOING.  31 

just  seated  Doctor  Warren  in  the  vehicle,  and  is 
about  to  take  his  place  by  his  side  when  Eix's 
tirade  bursts  upon  his  ear.  The  words  are  only 
partially  distinguishable,  but  the  colonel  steps 
promptly  back. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  your  prisoner,  ser- 
geant ?  Is  he  drunk  or  crazy,  that  he  persists  in 
this  uproar  ?" 

"  I  don't  think  it  either,  sir,"  answers  the  ser- 
geant ;  while  Eix,  at  sight  of  his  commanding  offi- 
cer, pops  his  head  back  within  the  tent,  and  shuts 
the  narrow  slit.  "  He's  simply  ugly  and  bent  on 
making  trouble." 

"  Well,  stop  it !  If  he  utters  another  insubordi- 
nate word,  have  him  bucked  and  gagged  at  once. 
He  is  disgracing  the  regiment,  and  I  won't  toler- 
ate it.     Do  you  understand  ?" 

"I  do,  sir." 

The  colonel  turns  abruptly  away,  while  the 
prisoner,  knowing  his  man,  keeps  discreetly  out 
of  sight,  and  correspondingly  silent.  At  the 
gate  the  older  officer  stops  once  more  and  calls 
to  a  soldier  who  is  standing  near. 

"  Give  my  compliments  to  Lieutenant  Abbot, 
and  say  that  I  will  be  out  here  again  to-morrow 
afternoon.    !N'ow,  doctor,  I  am  with  you." 


32  A   WAK-TIME   WOOING. 

The  old  gentleman  is  leaning  wearily  back  in 
his  corner  of  the  cab ;  a  strange,  stunned,  lethargic 
feehng  seems  to  have  come  over  him.  His  eyes 
are  fixed  on  vacancy,  if  anything,  and  the  colonel's 
attempt  at  cheeriness  meets  no  response.  As  the 
vehicle  slowly  rattles  away  he  makes  an  effort, 
rouses  himself  as  it  were  from  a  stupor-like  con- 
dition, and  abruptly  speaks ; 

"  You  tell  me  that — that  you  have  seen  Lieu- 
tenant Abbot's  mail  all  summer  and  spring  and 
never  saw  a  —  our  postmark — Hastings?" 

"  I  have  seen  his  mail  very  often,  and  thought 
his  correspondents  were  all  home  people.  I  am 
sure  I  would  have  noticed  any  letters  coming 
frequently  in  one  handwriting,  and  his  father's 
is  the  only  masculine  superscription  that  was  at 
all  regular. 

"  My  letters— our  home  letters— were  not  often 
addressed  by  me,"  hesitates  the  doctor.  "  The 
postmark  might  have  given  you  an  idea.  I  had 
not  time — "  but  he  breaks  off,  weakly.  It  is  so 
hard  for  him  to  prevaricate :  and  it  is  bitter  as 
death  to  tell  the  truth,  now.  And  worse — worse ! 
What  is  he  to  tell — how  is  he  to  tell  her  ? 

The  colonel  speaks  slowly  and  sadh',  but  with 
earnest  conviction : 


A   WAE-TIME   WOOING.  33 

"Xo  words  can  tell  you  how  I  mourn  the 
heartlessness  of  this  trick,  doctor ;  but  you  may 
rest  assured  it  is  no  doing  of  Abbot's.  "What 
earthly  inducement  could  he  have  ?  Think  of  it ! 
a  man  of  his  family  and  connections— and  char- 
acter, too.  Some  scoundrel  has  simply  borrowed 
his  name,  possibly  in  the  hope  of  bleeding  you 
for  money.  Did  none  of  the  letters  ever  suggest 
embarrassments?  It  is  most  unfortunate  that 
you  did  not  bring  them  with  you.  I  know  the 
writing  of  every  oflBcer  and  many  of  the  men  in 
the  regiment,  and  it  would  give  me  a  clew  with 
which  to  work.  Promise  me  you  will  send  them 
when  you  reach  home." 

The  Doctor  bows  his  head  in  deep  dejection. 
"What  good  wiU  it  do?  I  thought  to  find  a 
comrade  of  my  boy's.  Indeed !  it  must  be  one 
who  knew  him  well !— and  how  can  I  desire  to 
bring  to  punishment  one  who  appreciated  my 
son  as  this  unknown  writer  evidently  did.  His 
only  crime  seems  to  have  been  a  hesitancy  about 
giving  his  own  name." 

"  And  a  scoundrelly  larceny  of  that  of  a  better 

man  in  every  way.     Xo,  doctor.     The  honor  of 

my  regiment  demands  that  he  be  run  down  and 

brought  to  justice ;  and  you  must  not  withhold 

3 


34  A   WAK-TIME   WOOING. 

the  only  proof  with  which  we  can  reach  him. 
Promise  me !" 

"  I — I  will  think.  I  am  all  unstrung  now,  my 
dear  sir  !  Pray  do  not  press  me  !  If  it  was  not 
Mr.  Abbot,  who  could  it  have  been  ?  Who  else 
could  have  known  him  ?" 

''  Why,  Doctor  Warren,  there  are  probably 
fifty  Harvard  men  in  this  one  regiment — or  were 
at  least,"  says  the  colonel,  sadly,  "  up  to  a  month 
ago.  Cedar  Mountain,  Bull  Run,  South  Moun- 
tain, and  Antietam  have  left  but  a  moiety.  Most 
of  our  officers  are  graduates  of  the  old  college, 
and  many  a  man  was  there.  I  dare  say  I  could 
have  found  a  dozen  who  well  knew  your  son. 
In  the  few  words  I  had  with  Abbot,  he  told  me 
he  remembered  that  there  had  been  some  talk 
among  the  officers  last  July  after  your  son  was 
killed.  Some  one  saw  the  name  in  the  papers, 
and  said  that  it  must  have  been  Warren  of  the 
class  of  '58,  and  our  Captain  Webster,  who  was 
killed  at  Manassas,  was  in  that  class  and  knew 
him  well.  Abbot  said  he  remembered  him,  by 
sight,  as  a  sophomore  would  know  a  senior,  but 
had  never  spoken  to  him.  Anybody  hearing  all 
the  talk  going  on  at  the  time  we  got  the  news 
of  Seven  Pines  could  have  woven  quite  a  college 
history  out  of  it — and  somebody  has." 


A   WAR-TIME   WOOING.  35 

"  Ah,  colonel !  There  is  still  the  fact  of  the 
photograph,  and  the  letters  that  were  written 
about  Guthrie  all  last  winter — long  before  Seven 
Pines." 

The  colonel  looks  utterly  dejected,  too ;  he 
shakes  his  head,  mournfully.  "  That  troubles 
Abbot  as  much  as  it  does  me.  Fields,  gallant 
fellow,  was  our  adjutant  then,  and  he  and  Ab- 
bot were  close  friends.  He  could  hardly  have 
had  a  hand  in  anything  beyond  the  photograph 
and  letter  which,  you  tell  me,  were  sent  to  the 
Soldier's  Aid  Society  in  town.  I  remember  the 
young  fellows  were  having  quite  a  lot  of  fun 
about  their  ITavelocks  when  we  lay  at  Edwards's 
Ferry — but  Fields  was  shot  dead,  almost  the 
first  man,  at  Cedar  Mountain,  and  of  the  thirty- 
five  officers  we  had  when  we  crossed  the  !Poto- 
mac  the  first  time,  only  eleven  are  with  the  — th 
to-day.  Abbot,  who  was  a  junior  second  heu- 
tenant  then,  is  a  captain  now,  by  rights,  and 
daily  expecting  his  promotion.  I  showed  you 
several  letters  in  his  hand,  and  they,  you  admit, 
are  utterly  unhke  the  ones  you  received.  In- 
deed, doctor,  it  is  impossible  to  connect  xibbot 
with  it  in  any  way." 

The  doctor's  face  is  covered  by  his  hands.     In 


36  A  WAE-TIME   WOOING. 

ten  minutes  or  less  he  must  be  at  Tier  side.  What 
can  he  tell  his  little  girl?  "What  shall  he  say? 
What  possible,  probable  story  can  man  invent 
to  cover  a  case  so  cruel  as  this  ?  He  hardly  hears 
the  colonel's  words.  He  is  thinking — thinking 
with  a  bursting  heart  and  whirling  brain.  For 
a  time  all  sense  of  the  loss  of  his  only  son  seems 
deadened  in  face  of  this  undreamed-of,  this  al- 
most incredible  shadow  that  has  come  to  blight 
the  sweet  and  innocent  life  that  is  so  infinitely 
dear  to  him.  What  can  he  say  to  Bessie  when 
he  meets  those  beautiful,  pleading,  trusting,  anx- 
ious eyes  ?  She  has  borne  up  so  bravely,  silent- 
ly, patiently.  Their  journey  has  been  trjang 
and  full  of  fatigue,  but  once  at  Frederick  he  has 
left  her  in  the  hands  of  a  sympathetic  woman, 
the  Vv'ife  of  the  proprietor  of  the  only  tavern  in 
which  a  room  could  be  had,  and,  promising  to 
return  as  soon  as  he  could  see  the  lieutenant,  he 
has  gone  away  on  his  quest  with  hopeful  heart. 
A  soldier  claiming  to  be  of  the  — th  Massachu- 
setts told  them  that  very  morning  at  the  Balti- 
more station  that  Mr.  Abbot  was  well  enough 
to  be  up  and  about.  It  is  barely  nine  o'clock 
now.  In  less  than  an  hour  there  will  be  a  train 
going  back.     AIL  he  can  think  of  is  that  they 


A   WAK-TBIE   WOOING.  37 

must  go — go  as  quick  as  possible.  They  have 
nothing  now  to  keep  them  here,  and  he  has  one 
secret  to  guard  from  all — his  little  girls'.  Xo 
one  must  know,  none  suspect  that.  In  the  bit- 
terness of  desolation,  still  stunned  and  bewil- 
dered by  the  cruelty  of  the  blow  that  has  come 
upon  them,  his  mind  is  clear  on  that  point.  If 
possible  no  one,  except  those  people  at  the  tav- 
ern, must  know  she  was  with  him.  Kone  must 
suspect — above  all — none  must  suspect  the  bit- 
ter truth.  It  would  crush  her  like  a  bruised  and 
trodden  flower. 

"  If — if  it  had  been  a  correspondence  where 
there  was  a  woman  in  the  case,"  begins  the  col- 
onel again  —  and  the  doctor  starts  as  though 
stung,  and  his  wrinkled  hands  wring  each  other 
under  the  heavy  travelling-shawl  he  wears — "  I 
could  understand  the  thing  better.  Quite  a  num- 
ber of  romantic  correspondences  have  grown  up 
between  our  soldiers  and  young  girls  at  home 
through  the  medium  of  these  mittens  and  things  ; 
they  seem  to  have  lost  their  old  significance. 
But  you  give  me  to  understand  that — that  there 
was  none  ?" 

"  The  letters  were  solely  about  my  son,  aU 
that  ever  came  to  me,"  said  the  doctor,  nervously. 


38  A  WAE-TIME   WOOING. 

"  That  seems  to  complicate  the  matter.  If  it 
were  a  mere  flirtation  by  letter,  such  as  is  occa- 
sionally going  on,  then  somebody  might  have 
borrowed  his  name  and  stolen  his  photograph; 
but  I  don't  see  how  he  could  have  secured  the 
rephes — the  girl's  letters — in  such  a  case.  Xo. 
As  you  say,  doctor,  that  wasn't  apt  to  be  the  so- 
lution, though  I'm  at  a  loss  to  account  for  the 
letters  that  came  from  you.  They  were  addressed 
to  Lieutenant  Abbot,  camp  of  the  — th  Massa- 
chusetts, you  tell  me,  and  Abbot  declares  he  has 
never  heard  from  any  one  of  your  name,  or  had 
a  letter  from  Hastings.  He  would  be  the  last 
man,  too,  to  get  into  a  correspondence  with  a 
woman — for  he  is  engaged." 

The  doctor  starts  again  as  though  stung  a 
second  time.  Was  there  not  in  one  of  those  let- 
ters a  paragraph  over  which  his  sweet  daughter 
had  blushed  painfully  as  she  strove  to  read  it 
aloud?  Did  it  not  speak  of  an  entanglement 
that  once  existed ;  an  affair  in  which  his  heart 
had  never  been  enlisted,  but  where  family  con- 
siderations and  parental  wishes  had  conspired 
to  bring  about  a  temporary  ''  understanding  "  ? 
The  cabriolet  is  bouncing  about  on  the  cobble- 
stones of  the  old-fashioned  street,  and  the  doctor 


A  WAK-TIME  WOOING.  39 

is  thankful  for  the  physical  jar.  Another  mo- 
ment and  they  draw  up  at  the  door  of  the  old 
Maryland  hostelry,  and  the  colonel  steps  out 
and  assists  his  companion  to  alight. 

"  Let  me  take  you  to  your  room  now,  doctor ; 
then  I'll  have  onr  staff  surgeon  come  over  and 
see  you.  It  has  been  a  shock  which  would  break 
a  younger  man — " 

But  the  old  gentleman  has  nerved  himself  for 
the  struo:o:le.  First  and  foremost — no  one  must 
follow  him  to  his  room — none  suspect  the  trial 
there  awaiting  him.  He  turns  sadly,  but  with 
decision. 

^•'  Colonel,  I  cannot  thank  you  now  as  3^ou  de- 
serve ;  once  home,  I  will  write,  but  now  what  I 
need  is  absolute  rest  a  little  while.  I  am  stunned, 
bewildered.  I  must  think  this  out,  and  my  best 
plan  is  to  get  to  sleep  first.  Forgive  me,  sir,  for 
my  apparent  discourtesy,  and  do  not  take  it 
amiss  if  I  say  that  for  a  few  moments — for  the 
present — I  should  like  to  be  alone.  ^Ye — we  will 
meet  again,  sir,  if  it  rest  with  me,  and  I  will 
write.     Good-night,  colonel.     Good-night,  sir." 

And  he  turns  hurriedly  away.  For  a  moment 
the  soldier  stands  uncertain  what  to  do.  Then 
he  enters  the  hallway  determined  to  bespeak  the 


40  A   WAE-TIME   WOOING. 

best  offices  of  the  host  in  behalf  of  his  stricken 
friend.  There  is  a  broad  stairway  some  distance 
back  in  the  hall,  and  up  this  he  sees  the  doctor 
slowly  laboring.  He  longs  to  go  to  his  assist- 
ance, but  stands  irresolute,  fearing  to  offend. 
The  old  gentleman  nears  the  top,  and  is  almost 
on  the  landing  above,  when  a  door  is  suddenly 
opened,  a  light,  quick  step  is  heard,  and  in  a.n 
instant  a  tall,  graceful  girl,  clad  in  deep  black — 
a  girl  whom  the  colonel  sees  is  young,  beautiful, 
and  very  pale — springs  forward  into  view,  places 
her  hands  on  the  old  man's  shoulders,  and  looks 
eagerly,  imploringly,  into  his  face.  What  she 
asks,  what  she  says,  the  colonel  cannot  hear; 
but  another  moment  solves  all  doubt  as  to  his 
proper  course.  He  sees  her  clasped  to  the  doc- 
tors breast ;  he  sees  them  clinging  to  each  other 
one  instant,  and  then  the  father,  with  sudden 
rally,  bears  her  pale  and  probably  fainting  from 
his  sight.  A  door  shuts  with  muffled  slam,  and 
they  are  gone ;  and  with  the  intuition  of  a  gen- 
tleman Colonel  Putnam  realizes  why  his  proffer 
of  services  would  now  be  out  of  place. 

"  And  so  there  is  a  woman  in  the  case,  after 
all,"  he  thinks  to  himself  as  he  steps  forth  into 
the  cool  evening  air.     "And  it  is  for  her  sake 


A   WAR-TIME   WOOING.  41 

the  good  old  man  shrinks  from  dragging  the 
matter  into  the  light  of  day — his  daughter, 
probably ;  and  some  scoundrel  has  been  at  work, 
and  in  my  regiment." 

The  colonel  grinds  his  teeth  and  clinches  his 
fists  at  this  reflection.  He  is  a  husband  and 
father  himself,  and  now  he  understands  some 
features  in  the  old  doctor's  trouble  which  had 
puzzled  him  before.  He  strolls  across  the  street 
to  the  sidewalk  under  the  quaint  old  red-brick, 
dormer- windowed  houses  where  lights  are  still 
gleaming,  and  where  groups  of  people  are  chat- 
ting and  laughing  in  the  pleasant  air.  Many  of 
them  are  in  the  rough  uniform  of  the  army 
— teamsters,  drivers,  and  slightly  wounded  sol- 
diers out  on  pass  from  the  neighboring  field  hos- 
pitals. The  old  cabriolet  is  being  trundled  off 
to  some  neighboring  stable  after  a  brief  confab- 
ulation between  the  driver  thereof  and  the  land- 
lord of  the  tavern,  and  the  colonel  is  about  hail- 
ing and  tendering  the  Jehu  another  job  for  the 
morrow,  when  he  sees  that  somebody  else  is 
before  him;  and,  bending  down  from  his  seat, 
the  driver  is  talking  with  a  man  who  has  come 
out  from  the  shadow  of  a  side  porch.  There  is 
but  httle  light  in  the  street,  and  the  colonel  has 


42  A   WAR-TIME   WOOING. 

turned  on  reaching  the  curb,  and  is  seeking  among 
the  windows  across  the  way  for  one  which  may 
possibly  prove  to  be  the  young  lady's.  He  is 
interested  in  the  case  more  than  ever  now,  but 
the  windows  give  no  sign.  Some  are  lighted, 
and  occasional  shadows  flit  across  them,  but  none 
that  are  familiar.  Suddenly  he  hears  a  sound 
that  brings  him  back  to  himself — the  tramp  of 
marching  feet,  and  the  sudden  clash  of  arms  as 
they  halt ;  a  patrol  from  the  provost-marshal's 
guard  comes  quickly  around  a  corner  from  the 
soft  dust  of  a  side  street,  and  the  non-commis- 
sioned officers  are  sharply  halting  all  neighbor- 
ing men  in  uniform,  and  examining  their  passes. 
Several  parties  in  army  overcoats  shuffle  uneasily 
up  the  street,  only  to  fall  into  the  clutches  of  a 
companion  patrol  that  pops  up  as  suddenly  around 
the  next  corner  beyond.  ''  Eounding  up  the 
stragglers,"  thinks  the  colonel,  with  a  quiet  smile 
of  approval,  and,  like  the  soldier  he  is,  he  finds 
time  to  look  on  a  moment  and  watch  the  man- 
ner in  which  the  work  is  done.  The  patrol  seems 
to  have  possessed  itself  of  both  sides  of  the 
street  at  the  same  instant,  and  "  spotted  "  every 
man  in  blue.  These  are  bidden  to  stand  until 
their  papers  are  examined  by  the  brace  of  young 


A   WAE-TIME   WOOING.  43 

officers  who  appear  upon  the  scene,  belted  and 
sashed,  and  bearing  small  lanterns.     Kor  are 
uniforms  alone  subject  to  scrutiny.     Ever  since 
Second  Bull-Eun  there  has  been  much  strao-o-lino- 
m  the  army,  and  not  a  little  desertion ;  and  though 
a  fortnight  has  passed  since  Antietam  was  fought, 
the  proYost-marshars  men  have  not  yet  finished 
scouring  the  country,  and  a  sharp  lookout  is  kept 
for  deserters.     Those  civilians  who  can  readily 
estabhsh  their  identity  as  old  residents  of  the 
town  have  no  trouble.     Occasionally  a  man  is 
encountered  whom  nobody  seems  to  know,  and, 
despite  their  protestations,  two  of  those  charac- 
ters have  been  gathered  in  by  the  patrol,  and  are 
now  on  their  way  to  the  office.     The  colonel 
hears  their  mingled  complaint  and  blasphemy  as 
they  are  marched  past  him  by  a  file  of  the  guard, 

and  then  turns  to  the  nearest  of  the  officers— 
"Lieutenant,  did  you  note  the  man  who  ran 

back  from  where  that  cab  is  standino-  ?" 

The  officer  of  the  patrol  looks  quickly  up  from 

the  "  pass  "  he  is  examining  by  the  light  of  his 

lantern,  and  at  sight  of  Colonel  Putnam  his  hand 

goes  up  to  the  visor  of  his  cap. 

"  ]^o,  colonel ;  was  there  one  ?    Which  way  did 

he  go  ?" 


44  A  WAE-TIME  WOOING. 

"  Straight  back  to  the  shadow  of  the  porch ; 
just  a  minute  ago.  What  attracted  my  attention 
to  him  was  the  fact  that  he  was  deep  in  talk  with 
the  driver  when  your  men  rounded  the  corner, 
and  did  not  seem  to  see  or  hear  them.  Then  I 
turned  to  look  at  that  corporal  yonder,  as  he 
crossed  to  halt  a  man  on  the  east  side,  and  at 
sound  of  his  voice  this  fellow  at  the  cab  started 
suddenly  and  ran,  crouching  in  the  shadow,  back 
to  the  side  of  the  tavern  there.  It  looks  suspi- 
cious.'^ 

"  Come  with  me,  two  of  you,"  says  the  lieu- 
tenant, quickly,  and,  followed  by  a  brace  of  his 
guard,  he  crosses  the  street,  and  his  lantern  is 
seen  dancing  around  the  dark  gallery.  The  colo- 
nel, meantime,  accosts  the  driver : 

*'What  took  that  man  away  so  suddenly? 
Who  is  he  f 

"  I  don't  know,  sir.  I  never  seen  him  afore. 
He  stopped  me  right  here  to  ask  who  the  gen- 
tleman was  I  was  drivin'.  I  told  him  your  name, 
'cause  I  heard  it,  and  he  started  then  kinder  queer, 
but  came  back  and  said  'twas  the  citizen  he  meant ; 
and  the  boss  here  had  just  told  me  that  was  Doc- 
tor Warren,  and  that  his  daughter  Vv^as  up-stairs. 
Then  the  feller  jumped  like  he  was  scared ;  the 


A  WAR-TIME   WOOING.  45 

guard  had  just  come  round  the  corner,  and  when 
he  saw  them  he  just  put  for  the  barn." 

''Is  there  a  barn  back  there?"  asks  the  colo- 
neL  The  driver  nods  assent.  A  moment's  si- 
lence, and  then  the  colonel  continues :  "  I  want 
to  see  you  in  the  morning.  Wait  for  me  here  at 
the  hotel  about  nine  o'clock.  Meantime  say  noth- 
ing about  this,  and  you'll  lose  nothing  by  holding 
your  tongue.  What  was  his  face  like — this  man 
I  mean  ?" 

"  Couldn't  see  it,  sir.  It  was  dark,  and  he  had 
a  beard  all  over  it,  and  wore  a  black -felt  hat — 
soft ;  and  he  had  a  cloak  something  like  yours, 
that  was  wrapped  all  over  his  shoulders." 

"Eemember,  I  want  to  see  you  here  in  the 
morning ;  and  hold  your  tongue  till  then." 

"With  that  the  colonel  hastens  off  on  the  trail 
of  the  searching-party.  He  sees  the  lantern  glim- 
mering among  some  dark  buildings  beyond  the 
side-gallery,  and  thither  he  follows.  To  all  ap- 
pearances the  spot  is  almost  a  cul  de  sac  of  wood- 
en barns,  board-fences,  and  locked  doors,  except 
for  a  gateway  leading  to  the  yard  behind  the 
tavern.  The  search  has  revealed  no  trace  of 
the  skulker,  and  the  lieutenant  holds  his  lamp 
aloft  as  he  examines  the  gate  and  peers  over  the 


46  A  wAE-TiME  wooma. 

picket  fence  that  stands  barely  breast-high  and 
bars  them  out. 

"May  have  gone  in  here,'-  he  mutters.  "  Come 
on!" 

But  the  search  here  only  reveals  half  a  dozen 
avenues  of  escape.  The  man  could  have  gone 
back  through  several  doors  into  the  building  it- 
self, or  eastward,  through  some  dilapidated  yards, 
into  a  street  that  was  uninfested  by  patrols,  and 
dark  as  the  bottom  of  a  well.  "It  is  useless  to 
waste  further  time,"  sa3^s  the  lieutenant,  who 
presently  rejoins  the  colonel  behind  the  tavern, 
and  finds  him  staring  up  at  the  rear  windows. 
To  him  the  young  officer,  briefly  and  in  low 
tone,  reports  the  result  of  his  search. 

"  I  presume  there  is  nothing  else  I  can  do  just 
here,  is  there,  colonel?"  he  asks.  The  colonel 
shakes  his  head. 

"  j^othing  that  I  can  think  of,  unless  you  look 
through  the  halls  and  oflice." 

"We  are  going  there.  Shall  I  light  you  back 
to  the  street  ?" 

"  Er — ah — no !  I  think  I'll  wait  here — just  a 
moment, "  says  the  colonel,  and,  marvelling  not 
a  little,  the  subaltern  leaves  him. 

ISTo  sooner  is  he  gone,  followed  by  his  men, 


A  WAR-TIME  WOOING.  4:7 

than  Colonel  Putnam  steps  back  to  the  side  of 
an  old  chain-pump  that  he  has  found  in  the  course 
of  his  researches,  and  here  he  leans  for  support. 
Though  his  shoulder  has  set  in  shape,  and  is  do- 
ing fairly  well,  he  has  had  two  rather  long  drives 
this  day,  and  one  fatiguing  experience ;  he  is  be- 
ginning to  feel  wearied,  but  is  not  yet  ready  to 
go  to  his  bed.  That  was  Doctor  AYarren's  shad- 
ow, bent  and  feeble,  that  he  saw  upon  the  yellow 
light  of  the  window-shade  a  moment  ago,  and  he 
is  worried  at  the  evidence  of  increasing  weakness 
and  sorrow.  Even  while  he  rests  there,  irreso- 
lute as  to  what  he  ought  to  do — whether  to  go 
and  insist  on  his  right,  as  a  man  and  a  father,  to 
be  of  some  comfort  to  another  in  his  sore  trial, 
or  to  respect  that  father's  evident  wish  to  con- 
ceal his  daughter's  interest  in  the  trouble  that 
had  come  upon  them — he  is  startled  to  see  an- 
other shadow,  hers ;  and  this  shadow  is  in  hat 
and  veil.  Whither  can  they  be  going  at  this  hour 
of  the  night  ?  'Tis  nearly  ten  o'clock.  Yes,  sure- 
ly ;  there  is  the  doctor's  bent  shadow  once  more, 
and  he  has  thrown  on  an  outer  coat  of  some  kind. 
Then  they  are  going  back  by  the  night  train. 
They  shrink  from  having  it  known  that  she  was 
here  at  all ;  that  she  was  in  any  way  interested. 


48  A  WAR-TIME   WOOING. 

And  the  doctor  wants  to  make  his  escape  with- 
out the  pang  of  seeing  or  being  seen  again  by 
those  who  witnessed  his  utter  shock  and  distress 
this  day.  So  be  it!  thinks  the  colonel.  God 
knows  I  would  not  intrude  on  the  sanctity  of 
his  sorrow  or  her  secret.  Later,  when  they  are 
home  again,  the  matter  can  be  looked  into  so  far 
as  getting  specimens  of  this  skulking  felon's  hand- 
writing is  concerned,  and  no  one  need  know, 
when  he  is  unearthed,  that  it  was  a  young  girl 
he  was  luring  under  the  name  of  another  man. 
So  be  it!  They  may  easily  elude  all  question 
now.  Night  and  the  sacred  mantle  of  their  evi- 
dent suffering  will  shield  them  from  observation 
or  question. 

The  colonel  draws  deeper  into  the  shade  of  the 
barn.  It  seems  a  sacrilege  now  to  be  thus  spy- 
ing upon  their  movements,  and  he  is  ashamed  of 
the  impulse  that  kept  him  there.  He  decides  to 
leave  the  j^ard  and  betake  himself  to  his  lodgings, 
when  he  is  suddenly  aware  of  a  dark  object  ris- 
ing from  under  the  back  porch.  Stealthily  and 
slowly  the  figure  comes  crouching  out  into  the 
open  yard,  coming  towards  where  the  colonel 
stands  in  the  shadow  of  the  black  out-buildings ; 
and  then,  when  close  by  the  pump  where  he  stood 


A  WAR-TniE   WOOING.  49 

but  a  moment  before,  it  rises  to  its  full  height, 
and  draws  a  long  breath  of  relief.  It  is  a  man 
in  a  soft  black-felt  hat,  with  a  heavy,  dark  beard, 
and  wearing  one  of  the  biggest  of  the  great  cir- 
cular capes  that  make  a  part  of  the  officer's  over- 
coat, and  are  most  frequently  worn  without  the 
coat  itself,  unless  the  weather  be  severe. 

The  colonel  is  unarmed ;  his  pistols  are  over  at 
the  room  he  temporarily  occupies  in  town ;  he  is 
suffering  from  recent  injury,  and  one  arm  is  prac- 
tically good  for  nothing,  but  he  loses  no  time  in 
lamenting  these  points.  The  slight  form  of  the 
girl  approaches  the  window  at  this  very  instant 
as  though  to  pick  up  some  object  on  the  sill,  then 
disappears,  and  the  hght  vanishes  from  the  room. 
From  the  figure  at  the  pump  he  hears  a  stifled 
exclamation  of  surprise,  but  no  articulate  word ; 
and  before  the  figure  has  time  to  recover  he 
stands  close  beside  it  and  his  voice  breaks  the 
stillness  of  the  night. 

"  Your  name,  sir,  and  your  regiment  ?  I  am 
Colonel  Putnam." 

He  has  laid  his  hand  on  the  broad  shoulder  un- 
der the  cloak  and  plainly  feels  the  start  and  thrill 
with  which  his  words  are  greeted.     He  even 

fancies  he  can  hear  the  stifled  word  "  God !" 
4 


50  '  A   WAR-TIME   WOOING. 

The  man  seems  stricken  dumb,  and  more  sharply 
the  colonel  begins  his  stern  query  a  second  time, 
but  gets  no  farther  than  ^'  Your  name,"  when, 
with  a  violent  wrench,  the  stranger  is  free ;  he 
makes  a  spring,  trips  over  some  loose  rubbish, 
and  goes  crashing  to  earth. 

"  The  guard !"  yells  the  colonel,  as  he  throws 
himself  upon  him,  but  the  man  is  up  in  an  in- 
stant, hurls  off  his  antagonist,  and,  this  time,  leaps 
off  into  the  darkness  in  comparative  safety.  But 
he  has  left  a  clew  behind.  As  the  soldiers  of  the 
provost  guard  come  running  around  into  the 
yard  and  the  windows  are  thrown  up  and  eager 
heads  peer  forth  in  excited  inquiry.  Colonel 
Putnam  raises  to  the  light  of  the  first  lantern  a 
hairy,  bushy  object  that  he  holds  in  his  hand ;  it 
is  a  false  beard,  and  a  big  one. 

'•  By  Jove !"  says  the  heutenant.  "  It  must  be 
some  rebel  spy." 


III. 

Daybeeak,  and  the  broad  expanse  of  valley 
opening  away  to  the  south  is  just  lighting  up  in 
chill,  half -reluctant  fashion,  as  though  the  night 
had  been  far  too  short  or  the  revels  of  yester-even 
far  too  long.  There  is  a  swish  and  plash  of  rapid 
running  waters  close  at  hand,  and  here  and  there, 
where  the  stream  is  dammed  by  rocky  ridge,  the 
wisps  of  fog  rise  slowly  into  air,  mingling  with 
and  adding  to  the  prevailing  tone  of  chilly  gray. 
Through  these  fog-Tv^eaths  there  stands  revealed 
a  massive  barrier  of  wooded  and  rock-ribbed 
heights,  towering  aloft  and  shutting  out  the 
eastern  sky,  all  their  crests  a-swim  in  floating 
cloud,  all  their  rugged  foothills  dotted  with  the 
tentage  of  a  sleeping  army.  Here,  close  at  hand 
on  the  banks  of  the  rushing  river,  a  sentry  paces 
slowly  to  and  fro,  the  dew  dripping  from  his 
shouldered  musket  and  beading  on  his  cartridge- 
box.  The  collar  of  his  light -blue  overcoat  is 
muffled  up  about  his  ears,  and  his  forage  cap  is 


52  A  wAE-TiME  wooma. 

pulled  far  down  over  his  blinking  eyes.  As  he 
paces  southward  he  can  see  along  the  stream-bed 
camps  and  pale-blue  ghosts  of  sentries  pacing  as 
^yearily  as  himself  in  the  wan  and  cheerless  light. 
Trees  are  dripping  with  heavy  charge  of  moist- 
ure that  the  faintest  whiff  of  morning  air  sends 
showering  on  the  bank  beneath ;  and  a  little  del- 
uge of  the  kind  coming  suddenly  down  upon 
this  particular  sentry  as  he  strolls  under  the 
spreading  branches  serves  to  augment  the  ex- 
pression of  general  weariness  and  disgust,  which 
by  no  means  distinguishes  him  from  his  more 
distant  fellows,  but  evokes  no  further  comment 
than  a  momentary  huddling  of  head  and  shoul- 
ders into  the  depths  of  the  blue  collar,  and  the 
briefest  possible  mention  of  the  last  place  of  all 
others  one  would  be  apt  to  connect  with  cooUng 
showers.  Facing  about  and  slouching  along  the 
other  way  the  sentry  sees  a  picture  that,  had  he 
poetry  or  love  of  the  grand  and  beautiful  in  his 
soul,  would  a  thousand-fold  compensate  him  for 
his  enforced  vigil.  Every  moment,  as  the  timid 
light  grows  bolder  with  its  reinforcement  from 
the  east,  there  opens  a  vista  before  his  eyes  that 
few  men  could  look  upon  unmoved.  To  his  right 
the  brawling  Shenandoah,  swift  and  swirling,  goes 


A   WAK-TIME   WOOmG.  53 

rushing  through  its  last  rapids,  as  though  bent  on 
having  one  final  "hurrah"  on  its  own  account 
before  losing  its  identity  in  the  welcoming  waters 
of  the  Potomac.  Hemmino^  it  in  to  the  rig-ht — 
the  east — and  shutting  out  the  crimson  dawn  are 
the  massive  bulwarks  of  the  Loudon  Heierhts 
climbing  towards  the  changing  heavens.  West- 
ward, less  bold  and  jagged,  but  still  a  mighty 
barrier  in  almost  any  other  companionship,  are 
the  sister  heights  of  Bolivar,  scarred  and  seamed 
with  earth-work  and  rifle-pit,  and  bristling  with 
ahattls  and  battery.  Down  the  intervening  val- 
ley plunges  the  Shenandoah  and  winds  the  mac- 
adam of  the  highway,  its  dust  subdued  for  the  time 
being;  while,  straight  away  to  the  front,  mist- 
wreathed  at  their  base  from  the  sleeping  waters 
of  the  winding  canal,  cloud-capped  at  their  lofty 
summit  from  the  bank  of  vapor  that  hovers  along 
the  entire  range,  rock-ribbed,  precipitous,  mag- 
nificent in  silent,  stubborn  strength,  the  tower- 
ing heights  of  Maryland  span  the  scene  from 
east  to  west,  and  stand  superb,  the  background 
to  the  picture.  All  as  yet  is  sombre  in  tone, 
black,  dark  green,  and  brown  and  gray.  The 
mist  hangs  heavy  over  everything,  and  the  twin- 
kle of  an  occasional  camp-fire  is  but  the  sodden 


54  A   WAK-TIME   WOOING. 

glow  of  ember  whose  life  is  long  since  burned  out. 
But,  see !  Through  the  deep,  jagged  rift  where 
runs  the  Potomac,  along  the  rock-bound  gorge 
through  which  in  ages  past  the  torrent  burst  its 
way,  there  creeps  a  host  of  tiny  shafts  of  color — 
the  skirmishers,  the  edaireurs,  of  the  irresistible 
array  of  which  they  form  but  the  foremost  line 
— the  coming  army  of  the  God  of  Day.  Here 
behind  the  frowning  Loudon  no  such  light  troops 
venture ;  but,  skilled  riders  as  they  are, 

"Spurring  the  winds  of  the  morning," 

they  pour  through  the  rocky  gap,  and  now  they 
find  their  lodgment  on  every  salient  of  the  grim 
old  wall  beyond  the  broad  Potomac.  Here,  there, 
everywhere  along  the  southern  face  are  glinting 
shafts  or  points  on  rocks  or  ridge.  Seam  and 
shadow  take  on  a  purplish  tinge.  The  hanging 
mass  of  cloud  beams  with  answering  smile  upon 
its  earthward  face  as  gold  and  crimson  and  roy- 
al purple  mantle  the  billowy  cheeks.  I^ow  the 
rocks  light  up  with  warmer  glow,  and  long,  hori- 
zontal shadows  are  thrown  across  the  hoary  cur- 
tain, and  slowly  the  gorgeous  cloud -crests  lift 
away  and  more  and  more  the  heights  come 
gleaming  into  view.    Now  there  are  breaks  and 


A   WAE-TIME    WOOING.  55 

caverns  here  and  there  through  the  shifting 
vapors,  and  hurried  little  glimpses  of  the  cliffs 
beyond,  and  these  cloud-caves  grow  and  widen, 
and  broad  sheets  of  yellow  light  seem  warming 
up  the  dripping  wall  and  changing  into  mist  the 
clinging  beads  of  dew.  And  now,  far  aloft,  the 
fringe  of  firs  and  stunted  oaks  is  seen  upon  the 
summit  as  the  sun  breaks  through  the  shimmer- 
ing veil,  and  there,  fluttering  against  the  blue  of 
heaven,  circled  in  fleecy  frame  of  vapor,  glowing, 
waving  in  the  sky,  all  aflame  with  tingeing  sun- 
shine, there  leaps  into  view  the  "  Flag  of  the  Free,'- 
crowning  the  IMaryland  heights  and  shining  far 
up  the  guarded  valley  of  the  Shenandoah.  A 
puff  of  smoke  juts  out  from  the  very  summit 
across  the  stream ;  the  sentry  eyes  it  with  a  sigh 
of  reviving  interest  in  life ;  five,  ten,  twenty  sec- 
onds he  counts  before  the  boom  of  the  salute 
follows  the  sudden  flash  and  wakes  the  echoes  of 
the  opposite  cliffs. 

Listen !  Up  on  the  westward  heights,  some- 
where among  those  frowning  batteries,  a  bugle 
rings  out  upon  the  air — 

"I  can't  get  'em  up,  I  can't  get  'em  up, 
I  can't  get  'em  up  in  the  mo — orning," 

it  merrily  sings,  and  the  rocks  of  Loudon  echo 


56  A  WAK-TIME   WOOING. 

back  the  spirited  notes.  Farther  up  the  valley  a 
distant  drum  rattles,  and  then,  shrill  and  pierc- 
ing, with  hoarse,  rolling  accompaniment,  the  lifes 
of  some  infantry  regiment  burst  into  the  lively 
trills  of  the  reveille.  Another  camp  takes  up  the 
strain,  off  to  the  left.  Then  the  soft  notes  of  the 
cavalry  trumpets  come  floating  up  from  the  water- 
side, and  soon,  regiment  after  regiment,  the  field- 
music  is  all  astir  and  the  melody  of  the  initial 
effort  becomes  one  ringing,  blaring,  but  most  ef- 
fectually waking  discord.  Loud  in  the  nearest 
camp  the  little  drummers  and  fifers  are  thumping 
away  at  "  Bonnie  Lass  o'  Gawrie."  Over  by  the 
turnpike  the  rival  corps  of  the  — th  Connecticut 
are  pounding  out  the  cheerful  strains  in  which 
Ireland's  favored  bard  declared  he  would  "  Mourn 
the  hopes  that  leave,"  little  dreaming  that  Brit- 
ish fifes  and  drums  would  make  it  soldier  music 
— ''two-four  time" — all  the  world  over.  Half- 
way across  the  valley,  where  the  Bolivars  nar- 
row it,  an  Ohio  regiment  is  announcing  to  the 
rest  of  the  army,  within  earshot,  that  it  wakes  to 
the  realization  that  its  "  JST ame  it  is  Joe  Bowers," 
tooted  and  hammered  in  "  six-eight  time  "  through 
the  lines  of  "  A  "  tents ;  and  a  Kew  York  Zouave 
organization  turns  out  of  its  dew-dripping  blank- 


A  WAE-TIME   WOOING.  57 

ets  and  cordially  blasphemes  the  musicians  who 
are  expressing  as  their  conception  of  the  regi- 
mental sentiment,  ''  Oh,  Willie,  we  have  missed 
you."  And  so  the  chorus  goes  up  and  down 
the  Shenandoah,  and  the  time-worn  melodies 
of  the  earhest  war -days  —  the  dsijs  before  we 
had  ''  Tramp,  tramp,"  and  "  Marching  through 
Georgia"  (which  we  never  did  have  in  Virginia), 
and  even  lackadaisical  "When  this  crew-el  war 
is  o-vor,"  are  the  matins  of  the  soldiers  of  the 
Union  Army. 

At  last  the  uproar  dies  away.  Here  in  the 
neighboring  camp  the  sergeants  are  rapidly  call- 
ing the  rolls,  and  some  companies  are  so  reduced 
in  number  that  no  call  over  is  necessary  —  a  sim- 
ple glance  at  the  baker's  dozen  of  war-worn,  grish^ 
looking  men  is  sufficient  to  assure  the  sergeant  of 
the  presence  of  every  one  left  to  be  accounted  for. 
In  this  brigade  they  are  not  turning  out  under 
arms  just  now,  as  is  the  custom  farther  to  the 
front.  It  has  been  cruelly  punished  in  the  late 
battle,  and  is  accorded  a  resting-spell  pending  the 
arrival  of  recruits  from  home.  One  first  sergeant, 
who  still  wears  the  chevrons  of  a  corporal,  in 
making  his  report  to  his  company  commander 
briefly  says : 


58  A   WAE-TniE   WOOING. 

"  Eix  came  back  last  niglit,  sir ;  returned  to 
duty  with  his  company." 

''  Hello,  Hunnewell !"  sings  out  the  officer  ad- 
dressed, calling  to  the  new  adjutant,  who  is  hur- 
riedly passing  by.  ''  What  does  this  mean  ?  Are 
the  wagons  back?" 

'•IS^o,"  says  the  adjutant,  halting  short  with 
the  willingness  of  a  man  who  has  news  to  tell. 
"  Some  of  the  provost-marshal's  men  came  up 
last  night  from  Point  of  Eocks  and  fetched  Eix 
with  them,  and  letters  from  the  colonel.  Both  he 
and  Abbot  made  complaint  of  the  man's  con- 
duct, and  had  him  relieved  and  sent  up  here  un- 
der guard.    Heard  about  Abbot  ?" 

"  IS'o— what  ?" 

"He's  appointed  major  and  assistant  adjutant- 
general,  and  goes  to  staff  duty ;  and  the  colonel 
vnll  be  back  this  week." 

"Does  he  say  who's  to  be  quartermaster?" 
asks  the  lieutenant  with  eager  interest,  and  for- 
getting to  record  his  congratulations  on  the  good- 
fortune  that  has  befallen  his  regimental  comrade. 

"  ISTo,"  says  Mr.  Hunnewell,  with  some  hesi- 
tancy. "  There's  a  hitch  there.  To  begin  with, 
does  anybody  know  that  a  vacancy  exists  ?" 

"Why,  Hollins  has  been  missing  now  ever 


A  WAR-TIME   WOOING.  59 

Since  the  18th  of  September,  and  he  mnst  be 
either  dead  or  taken  prisoner." 

The  adjutant  looks  around  him,  and,  seeing 
other  officers  and  men  within  earshot,  though 
general!}^  occupied  with  their  morning  ablutions, 
he  comes  closer  to  his  comrade  of  the  line  and 
the  two  who  have  joined  him,  and  speaks  with 
lowered  voice. 

"  There  is  some  investigation  going  on.  The 
colonel  sent  for  such  books  and  papers  of  Hol- 
lins's  as  could  be  found  about  camp,  and  an  order 
came  last  night  for  Captain  Dodge  to  report  at 
once  at  Frederick.  He  was  better  acquainted 
with  Hollins  than  any  one  else — among  the  offi- 
cers anyway  —  and  he  knew  something  about 
his  whereabouts  the  other  times  he  was  missing. 
This  makes  the  third." 

"  Three  times  and  out,  say  I,"  answers  one  of 
the  party.  "  I  heard  some  talk  at  division  head- 
quarters when  I  was  up  there  last  night :  the 
general  has  a  letter  that  Colonel  Ea}Tnond  wrote 
soon  after  he  was  exchanged,  but  if  it  be  any- 
thing to  Hollins's  discredit  I  wonder  he  did  not 
write  to  Putnam.  He  wouldn't  want  his  succes- 
sor to  be  burdened  with  a  quartermaster  whom 
he  knew  to  be — well — shady,  so  to  speak." 


60  A   WAK-TIME   WOOING. 

"  That's  the  one  thing  I  never  understood 
about  Abbot,"  says  the  caj^tain,  sipping  the  cup 
of  coffee  that  a  negro  servant  had  just  brought 
to  him.  "  Some  more  of  that,  Belshazzar ;  these 
gentlemen  will  join  me.  How  he,  who  is  so 
blue-blooded,  seems  to  be  on  such  terms  of  inti- 
macy with  HoUins  is  what  I  mean,"  he  explains. 
"It  was  through  him  that  Hollins  was  taken 
into  companionship  from  the  very  start.  He 
really  is  responsible  for  him.  They  were  class- 
mates, and  no  one  else  knew  anything  of  him — 
except  vaguely." 

"  Now  there's  just  where  you  wrong  Abbot, 
captain,"  answers  Mr.  Hunnewell,  very  promptly, 
"  and  I  want  to  hit  that  nail  on  the  head  right 
here.  I  thought  just  as  you  did,  for  a  while ;  but 
got  an  inkling  as  to  the  real  state  of  the  case 
some  time  ao:o.  It  wasn't  Abbot  who  endorsed 
him  at  aU,  except  by  silence  and  sufferance,  you 
may  say.  Hollins  was  at  his  tent  day  and  night 
— always  following  him  up  and  actually  forcing 
.himself  upon  him  ;  and  one  night,  after  Hollins 
had  that  first  scrape,  and  came  back  under  a 
cloud  and  went  to  Abbot  first  thing  to  intercede 
with  the  colonel,  I  happened  to  overhear  a  piece 
of  conversation  between  them.    Abbot  was  just 


A   WAR-TIIVIE   WOOING.  61 

as  cold  and  distant  as  man  could  possibly  be. 
He  told  him  plainly  that  he  considered  his  course 
discreditable  to  the  whole  regiment,  and  especial- 
ly annoying  to  him,  because,  said  Abbot, '  You 
have  virtually  made  me  your  sponsor  with  every 
man  who  showed  a  disposition  to  repel  you.' 
Then  Hollins  made  some  reply  which  I  did  not 
fully  catch,  but  Abbot  was  angry,  and  anybody 
could  have  heard  his  answer.  He  told  HoUins 
that  if  it  had  not  been  for  the  relationship  to 
which  he  alluded  he  could  not  have  tolerated 
him  at  all,  but  that  he  must  not  draw  on  it  too 
often.  Then  Holhns  came  out,  and  I  heard  him 
muttering  to  himself.  He  fawned  on  Abbot 
while  he  was  in  the  tent,  but  he  was  scowlinof 
and  gritting  his  teeth  when  he  left ;  and  I  heard 
him  cursing  sotto  voce,  until  he  suddenly  caught 
sight  of  me.  Then  he  was  all  joviaUty,  and  took 
me  by  the  arms  to  tell  me  how  '  Paul,  old  bo}", 
has  been  raking  me  over  the  coals.  We  were 
chums,  you  know,  and  he  thinks  a  heap  of  me, 
and  don't  want  the  home  people  to  know  of  my 
getting  on  a  spree,'  was  the  way  he  explained  it. 
;N'ow,  if  you  remember,  it  was  Hollins  who  was 
perpetually  alluding  to  his  intimacy  with  the 
Abbots.    Paul  himself  never  spoke  of  it.    What 


62  A  WAE-TIME  WOOESTG. 

Palfrey  once  told  me  in  Washington  may  explain 
it ;  he  said  that  Hollins  was  distantly  related  to 
the  Winthrops,  and  that  there  was  a  time  when 
he  and  Miss  Winthrop  were  quite  inseparable — 
you  know  what  a  handsome  fellow  he  was  when 
he  first  joined  us  ?" 

"  Well,"  answers  the  captain,  with  the  half- 
way and  reluctant  withdrawal  of  the  average 
man  who  has  made  an  unjust  statement,  "it 
may  be  as  you  say,  but  all  the  same  it  was  Ab- 
bot's tacit  endorsement  or  tolerance  that  ena- 
bled Holhns  to  hold  a  place  among  us  as  long  as 
he  has.  If  he  has  been  sheltered  under  the  shad- 
ow of  Abbot's  wing,  and  turns  out  to  be  a  vaga- 
bond, so  much  the  worse  for  the  wing.  All  the 
same,  I'm  glad  of  Abbot's  promotion.  Wonder 
whose  staff  he  goes  on?" 

"  Lieutenant,"  says  a  corporal,  saluting  the 
group  and  addressing  his  company  commander, 
"Rix  says  he  would  like  to  speak  with  the  major 
before  breakfast.  He  was  for  going  to  head- 
quarters alone  just  now,  but  I  told  him  he  must 
wait  until  I  had  seen  you." 

The  lieutenant  glances  quickly  around.  There, 
not  ten  paces  away — his  forage  cap  on  the  back 
of  his  head,  his  hulking  shoulders  more  bent  than 


A   WAK-TIME   WOOING.  63 

ever,  hands  in  his  pockets  and  a  scowl  on  his 
face — stands,  or  rather  slouches,  Kix.  He  looks 
unkempt,  dirty,  determinedly  ugly,  and  very 
much  as  though  he  had  been  in  liquor  most  of 
the  week,  and  was  sober  now  only  through  ad- 
verse circumstances  over  which  he  had  no  control. 

"  What  do  you  want  of  the  major,  Kix  ?"  de- 
mands the  lieutenant,  with  military  directness. 

"Well,  I  want  him — 'n  that's  enough,"  says 
the  ex-teamster,  with  surly,  defiant  manner,  and 
never  changing  his  attitude.  "  I  want  t'  know 
what  I'm  sent  back  here  for,  like  a  criminal." 

"  Because  you  look  most  damnably  like  one," 
says  the  officer,  impulsively,  and  then,  ashamed 
of  having  said  such  a  thing  to  one  who  is  power- 
less to  resent,  he  tempers  the  wrath  with  which 
he  would  rebuke  the  man's  insubordination,  and, 
after  an  instant's  pause,  speaks  more  gently. 

"  Come  here,  Eix.  Stand  up  like  a  man  and 
tell  me  your  trouble.  If  you  have  been  wronged 
in  any  way  I'll  see  that  you  are  righted ;  but 
recollect  what  and  where  you  are." 

"  I'm  a  man,  by  God !  Good  as  any  of  you  a 
year  ago ;  better'n  most  of  3^ou  five  years  ago ; 
an'  now  I'm  ordered  about  by  boys  just  out  of 
their  teens.    I'm  not  under  Abbot's  orders.    Lieu- 


64:  A   WAR-TIME   WOOING. 

tenant  Hollins  is  my  officer  ;  he'll  fix  me  all  right. 
Where's  lie^  lieutenant  ?    He's  the  man  I  want." 

"  Eix,  you  will  only  get  into  more  trouble  if 
you  don't  mend  your  manners,"  says  the  heuten- 
ant,  half  agreeing  with  the  muttered  comment 
of  a  comrade,  that  the  man  had  better  be  gagged 
forthwith,  but  determined  to  control  his  own 
temper.  "  As  to  Lieutenant  Hollins,  he  has  not 
been  heard  of  since  Antietam.  ITobody  knows 
what's  become  of  him." 

The  effect  of  this  announcement  is  startling. 
Eix  turns  ghastly  white ;  his  bloodshot  eyes 
stare  fearfully  at  his  informant,  then  blink  sav- 
agely around  on  one  after  another  of  the  party. 
His  fingers  twitch  nervously,  and  he  clutches  at 
his  throat." 

"  Are — are  you  sure,  lieutenant  ?"  he  gasps,  all 
his  insolence  of  manner  gone. 

"  Sure,  sir.  He  hasn't  been  seen  or  heard  of 
since — " 

"  Why,  my  God !  He  told  me  back  there  at 
Boonsboro'  that  he  would  ride  right  over  to 
camp — time  I  was  going  back  with  the  colonel 
through  the  Gap ." 

"  Boonsboro' !  Why,  man,  that  was  several 
days  after  the  battle  that  you  went  back  with 


A  WAE-TIME  WOOING.  65 

the  colonel's  ambulance !  Then  you've  seen  him 
since  we  have.    Where  was  it  ?" 

But  Eix  has  recovered  his  wits,  such  as  they 
are.  He  has  made  a  damaging  admission,  and 
one  that  places  him  in  a  compromising  position. 
He  quickly  blurts  forth  a  denial. 

"  'No,  no !  It  wasn't  then.  I  misremembered. 
'Twas  when  we  went  over  the  first  time.  He 
says  to  me  right  there  at  Boonsboro' — " 

"  You're  lying,  Eix,"  interposed  the  senior  offi- 
cer of  the  party,  who  has  been  an  absorbed  list- 
ener. "You  didn't  go  through  Boonsboro'  at  all, 
first  thne  over.  We  followed  the  other  road,  and 
you  followed  us.  It  must  have  been  when  you 
went  back.  ^N'ow  what  did  the  quartermaster 
say?" 

But  Kix  sets  his  jaws  firmly,  and  will  tell  no 
more.  Twice  he  is  importuned,  but  to  no  pur- 
pose.    Then  the  captain  speaks  again. 

"  We  need  not  disturb  the  commanding  officer 
until  breakfast-time,  but  there  is  no  doubt  in  my 
mind  this  man  can  give  important  evidence.  I 
will  take  the  responsibility.  Have  Eix  placed  in 
charge  of  the  guard  at  once." 

And  when  the  corporal  reappears  it  is  with  a 
file  of  men,  armed  with  their  Springfields.    Be- 


QQ  A   WAE-TIME   WOOING. 

tween  them  Eix  is  marched  away,  a  scared  and 
haggard-looking  man. 

For  a  moment  the  officers  stand  in  silence, 
gazing  after  him.     Then  the  captain  speaks. 

"  That  man  could  tell  a  story,  without  deviat- 
ing a  hair's-breadth  from  the  truth,  that  would 
astonish  the  commonwealth  of  Massachusetts,  or 
I  am  vastly  mistaken  in  him.  Does  anybody 
know  his  antecedents  ?" 

"He  was  our  first  quartermaster -sergeant, 
that's  all  I  know  of  him,"  answers  Mr.  Hunne- 
well ;  "  but  he  was  in  bad  odor  with  the  colonel, 
I  heard,  long  before  Cedar  Mountain.  He  would 
have  'broken'  him  if  it  had  not  been  for  Hol- 
lins's  intercessions." 

"  I  mean  his  antecedents,  before  the  outbreak 
of  the  war,  not  in  the  regiment.  "Where  did  Hol- 
lins  get  him  ?  Whi/  did  he  get  him,  and  have  him 
made  quartermaster-sergeant,  and  stick  to  him  as 
he  did  for  months,  after  everybody  else  was  con- 
vinced of  his  worthlessness  ?  There  is  something 
I  do  not  understand  in  their  relations.  Do  you 
remember,  when  we  were  first  camped  at  Merid- 
ian Hill,  Hollins  and  Eix  occupied  the  same  tent 
a  few  days,  and  the  colonel  put  a  stop  to  it? 
Hollins  was  furious,  and  tried  to  raise  a  point 


A  WAR-TIME   WOOING.  67 

against  the  colonel.  He  pointed  to  the  fact  that 
in  half  the  regiments  around  us  the  quartermas- 
ter was  allowed  to  have  his  sergeant  for  a  tent- 
mate  if  he  wanted  to ;  and  if  Colonel  Eaymond 
had  any  objections,  why  didn't  he  say  so  before 
they  left  the  state  ?  He  had  lived  with  him  a 
whole  month  in  camp  there,  and  the  colonel 
never  said  a  word.  I  confess  that  some  of  us 
thought  that  Eix  was  badly  treated  when  he 
was  ordered  to  pitch  his  tent  elsewhere,  but  the 
colonel  never  permitted  any  argument.  I  heard 
him  tell  Holhns  that  what  was  permissible  while 
we  were  simply  state  troops  was  not  to  be  con- 
sidered precedent  for  his  action  when  they  were 
mustered  into  the  national  service.  In  his  regi- 
ment, as  in  the  well-disciphned  regiments  of  any 
state,  the  officers  and  enlisted  men  must  live 
apart." 

"  But  HoUins  claimed  that  Eix  was  a  man  of 
good  birth  and  education,  and  that  he  was  coach- 
ing him  for  a  commission,"  interposes  one  of  the 
group. 

"  That  was  an  afterthought,  and  had  no  bear- 
ing on  the  case  anyway.  I  know  that  in  this,  as 
in  some  other  matters,  there  were  many  of  us 
who  chafed  a  little  at  the  idea  of  regular  army 


QS  A  WAR-TIME  WOOING. 

discipline  among  ns,  but  we  know  now  the  colo- 
nel was  right.  As  for  Kix,  he  turned  out  to  be 
a  drunkard  before  we  got  within  rifle-range  of 
Yirginia." 

"Yet  he  was  retained  as  quartermaster-ser- 
geant." 

"  Because  Hollins  shielded  him  and  kept  him 
out  of  the  way.  I  tell  you,"  puts  in  the  captain, 
testily,  "  Colonel  Eaymond  would  have  '  broken' 
him  if  he  had  not  been  taken  at  Ball's  Bluff. 
Putnam  didn't  like  to  overthrow  Eaymond' s  ap- 
pointee without  his  full  knowledge  and  consent, 
and  so  he  hung  on  till  after  we  got  back  to  Alex- 
andria. Even  then  HoUins  had  him  detailed  as 
driver  on  plea  that  his  lame  foot  would  prevent 
his  marching.  But  Hollins  is  gone  now  and  Mr. 
ex-Q.  M.  Sergeant  Kix  is  safely  jugged.  Mark 
my  words,  gentlemen,  he'll  be  needed  when  Hol- 
lins's  papers  are  overhauled." 

"  Hullo !  What's  up  now  ?"  suddenly  demands 
the  adjutant.     "  Look  at  headquarters." 

From  where  they  stand  the  broad  highway  up 
the  valley  is  plainly  visible  for  a  mile  or  more, 
and  to  the  right  of  the  turnpike,  on  a  little  rising 
ground,  are  pitched  the  tents  of  the  division  com- 
mander and  his  staff.     Farther  away,  among 


A  WAE-TIME   WOOING.  69 

some  substantial  farm-buildings,  are  to  be  seen 
the  cavalrymen  of  the  regular  service  who  are 
attached,  as  escort  and  orderlies,  to  the  head- 
quarters of  the  Second  Corps,  and  a  dozen  of 
these  gentry  are  plainly  visible  scurrying  about 
between  their  little  tents  and  the  picket-line, 
where  their  horses  are  tethered.  It  is  evident 
that  the  whole  troop  is  hurriedly  saddling  and 
that  orderlies  are  riding  off  beyond  the  buildings, 
each  with  one  or  more  led  horses — the  "  mounts  " 
of  the  staff.  Here,  close  at  hand,  among  the  tents 
of  the  Massachusetts  men,  the  soldiers  have  risen 
to  their  feet,  and  with  coffee  steaming  from  the 
battered  tin  cup  in  one  hand  and  bread  or  bacon 
clutched  in  the  other  they  are  gazing  with  in- 
terest, but  no  sign  of  excitement,  at  the  scene  of 
evident  action  farther  to  the  front.  A  year  ago 
such  signs  of  preparation  at  headquarters  would 
have  sent  the  whole  regiment  in  eager  rush  for 
its  arms  and  equipments,  but  it  has  learned  wis- 
dom with  its  twelve-month  of  campaigning.  ISTot 
a  shot  has  been  heard  up  the  valle}^.  It  can  be 
no  attack  there.  Yet  something  unquestionably 
has  happened.  Yes,  the  escort  is  "  leading  out." 
See !  far  up  on  the  heights,  to  the  west,  the  men 
are  thronging  on  the  parapets.    They  have  a 


YO  A  WAE-TIME   WOOING. 

better  view  from  there  of  what  is  going  on  at 
Sumner's  headquarters.  JSText,  shooting  around 
the  building  on  the  low  rise  to  the  right  front, 
there  comes  a  staff-officer  at  rapid  gallop.  Down 
the  slope  he  rides,  over  the  low  stone  wall  his 
charger  bears  him,  and  down  the  turnpike  he 
speeds,  heedless  of  the  shouts  of  inquiry  that 
seem  to  greet  him  from  the  camps  that  flank  the 
road.  Sharp  to  his  right  he  turns,  at  a  little  lane 
a  quarter-mile  away,  and  disappears  among  the 
trees.  "  Going  to  the  cavalry  camps,"  hazards 
the  adjutant,  and  determines  that  he  had  better 
get  over  to  the  major's  tent — their  temporary 
commander — and  warn  him  "something's  com- 
ing." Another  minute,  quick,  pealing,  spirited, 
there  rings  on  the  air  the  sound  of  a  trumpet,  and 
the  stirring  call  of  "  Boots  and  saddles !"  startles 
the  ear  of  many  a  late  sleeper  among  the  officers. 
The  sun  is  not  yet  shining  in  the  valle}^ ;  the  dew 
is  sparkling  on  every  blade  and  leaf:  but  the 
Second  Corps  is  all  astir,  and  there  is  a  cheer  in 
the  cavalry  camp  that  tells  of  soldierly  doings 
close  at  hand.  A  light  battery  is  parked  just 
across  the  highway,  and  as  the  aide  reappears, 
spurring  from  the  lane  out  into  the  pike  again, 
the  officers  see  how  its  young  commander  has 


A  WAE-TIME  WOOING.  71 

vaulted  into  saddle  and  is  riding  down  to  inter- 
cept him  so  that  not  a  minute  be  lost  if  the  guns 
are  needed.  Thej  are.  For  though  the  aide 
comes  by  like  a  shot,  he  has  shouted  some  quick 
words  to  the  captain  of  the  battery,  and  the  lat- 
ter waves  his  jaunty  forage  cap  to  his  expectant 
bugler,  standing,  clarion  in  hand,  by  the  guard- 
fire.  ''  Boots  and  saddles !"  again ;  and— drivers 
and  cannoneers — the  men  drop  their  tin  cups 
and  plates,  and  leap  for  the  lines  of  harness. 
Down  comes  the  aide  full  tilt  as  before.  Cap- 
tain Lee  runs  to  the  roadside  and  hails  him  with 
famihar  shout : 

"What's  up.  Win?" 

And  gets  no  further  answer  than 

"  Tell  you  as  I  come  back." 

Meantime  other  aides  have  been  scurrj^ing  to 
and  fro ;  and  far  and  near,  up  and  down  the  Shen- 
andoah and  out  across  the  valley,  where  the 
morning  sunshine  triumphs  over  the  barring 
Loudon,  the  same  stirring  call  rings  out  upon  the 
air.  "  Boots  and  saddles !"  everywhere,  and  no- 
where the  long-roll  or  the  infantry  assembly. 

"Back  to  your  breakfast,  boys,"  says  a  tall 
and  bearded  sergeant.  "  Whatever  it  is,  it  don't 
amount  to  shucks.    The  infantry  isn't  called  for." 


72  A  WAR-TIME   WOOING. 

But  that  it  amounts  to  more  than  "  shucks/' 
despite  the  footman's  epigram,  is  presently  ap- 
parent when  the  staff-officer  comes  more  slowly 
back,  easing  his  panting  horse.  The  major  has 
by  this  time  turned  out,  and  in  boots  and  over- 
coat is  striding  over  to  the  stone  wall  to  get  the 
news. 

"  What  is  it.  Win  ?"  he  asks. 

And  the  aide-de-camp,  bending  low  from  the 
saddle  and  with  grave  face,  replies, 

"  Stuart  again,  by  Heaven !  He  whipped 
around  our  right,  somewhere  near  Martinsburg, 
last  night,  and  is  crossing  at  Williamsport  now." 

"  What!  Why,  we've  got  three  corps  over 
there  about  Antietam  3^et." 

"  Yes ;  and  he'll  go  around  them,  just  as  he  did 
round  us,  and  be  up  in  Pennsylvania  to-morrow. 
Where  are  your  wounded  ?" 

"Some  over  near  Keedysville;  the  others, 
those  we  lost  at  South  Mountain,  somewhere 
near  Frederick.  The  colonel  and  Abbot  were 
there  at  last  accounts.     Why  ?" 

"  Because  it  will  be  just  like  him  to  go  clean 
around  us  and  come  down  the  Monocacy.  If  he 
should,  they  are  gone,  sure." 


ly. 

Two  days  after  the  excitement  in  Frederick 
consequent  upon  the  escape  of  the  supposed  spy 
Colonel  Putnam  was  chatting  with  the  jDrovost- 
marshal  and  the  landlord  of  the  tavern  where 
Doctor  Warren  had  paid  his  brief  visit.     They 
were  discussing  a  piece  of  news  that  had  come 
in  during  the  morning.     From  the  very  first  the 
proprietor  of  the  old  tavern  had  scoffed  at  the 
theory  of  there  being  anything  of  a  Southern 
spy  about  the  mysterious  stranger.     He  was  a 
Southern  man  himself,  and,  though  hardly  an 
enemy  to  the  Union,  he  had  that  personal  sym- 
pathy for  a  host  of  neighbors  and  friends  which 
gave  him  something  of  a  leaning  that  way.     He 
did  not  believe,  he  openly  said,  that  anything  on 
earth  could  whip  the  South  so  long  as  they  kept 
on  their  own  soil ;  but  things  looked  black  for 
their  cause  when  they  crossed  the  Potomac.     Ma- 
ryland had  not  risen  in  tumultuous  welcome  as 
Lee  hopefully  expected.    The  w^orn,  ragged,  half- 


74  A  WAR-TIME   WOOING. 

starved  soldiers  that  had  inarched  up  the  valley 
in  mid-September  had  little  of  the  heroic  in  their 
appearance,  despite  the  fame  of  their  exploits; 
and  in  their  hunger  and  thirst  they  had  made 
way,  soldier-fashion,  with  provender  for  which 
they  could  not  pay.     The  host  himself  had  suf- 
fered not  a  nttle  from  their  forays,  and  while 
his  sentiments  were  broadly  Southern  his  busi- 
ness instincts  were  emphatically  on  the  side  of 
the  greenbacks  of  the  Xorth.     He  had  found 
the  Union  officers  men  of  means,  if  not  of  such 
picturesquely  martial  attributes  as  their  Southern 
opponents;   and  while  he  would  not  deny  his 
friendship  for  many  a  gallant  fellow  in  the  rebel 
gray,  neither  would  he  rebuff  the  blue-coat  whose 
palm  was  tinged  with  green.     He  liked  the  pro- 
vost-marshal because  that  functionary  had  twice 
rescued  his  bar  from  demolition  at  the  hands  of 
a  gang  of  stragglers.     He  admired  Colonel  Put- 
nam as  a  soldier  and  a  gentleman,  but  he  was 
enjoying  a  triumph  over  both  of  them;  he  had 
news  to  tell  which  seemed  to  sustain  his  theory 
and  defeat  theirs  as  to  the  identity  of  the  man 
who  left  his  beard  behind  him. 

"I  am  told  you  knew  this  Doctor  Warren, 
colonel,"  he  was  saying,  "  and  up  to  this  time  I 


A  WAE-TIME   WOOINQ.  75 

had  not  spoken  of  him  for  reasons  which — well, 
because  he  had  reasons  for  asking  me  to  make 
no  mention  of  his  being  here.  ]^ow,  if  he  was  a 
Doctor  Warren,  from  the  Korth,  and  a  loyal 
man,  what  would  he  be  doing  with  a  spy  ?" 

"  I  did  not  know  he  saw  him  at  all,"  said  Colo- 
nel Putnam,  quickly. 

"  Kor  do  I ;  but  I  do  believe  that  he  was  here 
purposely  to  meet  him ;  that  he,  the  man  you 
tried  to  arrest,  was  here  at  this  house  to  meet 
your  friend  who  followed  you  out  to  camp.  If 
Doctor  "Warren  is  a  loyal  man,  as  you  doubtless 
beheve  him,  he  would  have  no  call  to  be  here  to 
get  papers  from  a  man  who  could  only  meet  him 
in  disguise.  I'm  told  the  doctor  made  himself 
all  clear  to  you  as  to  who  he  was." 

Colonel  Putnam's  face  is  a  study.  He  is  un- 
questionably turning  pale,  and  his  eyes  are  filled 
with  a  strange,  introspective,  puzzled  look.  He 
is  startled,  too. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  he  did  have  commu- 
nication with  the  doctor  V  he  asks. 

"  My  wife  is  ready  to  swear  to  it,"  replies  mine 
host.  "  Her  story  is  simply  this  :  She  had  come 
down-stairs  just  as  the  doctor  returned.  She  had 
been  sitting  with  the  young  lady,  who  was  very 


76  A  WAK-TIME   WOOING. 

nervous  and  ill  at  ease  while  he  was  away,  and 
had  gone  into  the  kitchen  at  the  back  of  the 
house  to  get  her  a  cup  of  tea.  She  was  startled 
by  a  rap  at  the  door,  and  in  walks  a  man  wrapped 
up  in  a  big  military  cape.  He  wore  spectacles 
and  a  full  black  beard,  and  he  took  off  his  hat, 
and  spoke  like  a  gentleman.  He  said  he  desired 
to  see  either  Doctor  Warren  or  the  young  lady 
at  once  on  business  of  the  utmost  importance, 
and  asked  her  if  she  would  conduct  him  up  by  a 
rear  stairwa}^  My  wife  told  him  to  go  around 
to  the  office,  but  he  replied  that  he  expected  that, 
and  hastened  to  tell  her  that  it  was  because  there 
were  Union  officers  in  the  hallway  that  he  could 
not  go  there.  There  were  personal  reasons  why 
he  must  not  be  seen ;  and  she  said  to  him  that  a 
man  who  looked  Uke  an  officer  and  spoke  like  a 
gentleman  ought  not  to  be  afraid  to  go  among 
his  fellows ;  and  he  said  he  was  not  an  officer, 
and  then  asked  her,  suddenly,  if  she  was  a  friend 
to  the  ;North  or  the  South ;  and  before  she  could 
answer  they  both  saw  lights  dancing  about  out 
there  in  the  yard,  and  he  was  startled,  and  said 
'twas  for  him  they  were  searching,  and  begged 
her,  as  she  was  a  woman,  not  to  betray  him ;  he 
was  the  young  lady's  lover,  he  said  in  explana- 


A  WAR-TIME   WOOING.  77 

tion,  and  had  risked  much  to  meet  her.  And  my 
wife's  lieart  was  touched  at  that,  and  she  showed 
him  a  place  to  hide ;  and  when  she  went  up  she 
heard  the  young  lady  sobbing  and  the  old  man 
trying  hard  to  comfort  her ;  and  she  knocked, 
but  they  begged  to  be  left  undisturbed  until  they 
called,  and  she  went  down  and  told  the  man ;  and 
he  was  fearfully  nervous  and  worried,  she  said, 
especially  when  told  about  the  crying  going  on ; 
and  he  wrote  a  few  lines  on  a  scrap  of  paper, 
gave  it  to  her  with  a  little  packet,  and  she 
took  them  up  to  the  doctor ;  and  they  were  just 
coming  out  of  their  room  at  the  moment,  and  the 
doctor  put  the  papers  in  his  pocket,  and  said  to 
her  and  to  me  that  he  begged  us  to  make  no  men- 
tion of  his  daughter's  being  there  to  any  one — 
there  were  reasons.  And  her  face  was  hidden 
in  her  veil,  and  he  seemed  all  broken  down  with 
anxiety  or  illness,  and  said  they  must  have  a  car- 
riage or  something  to  take  them  at  once  to  the 
railway.  They  probably  went  back  to  Baltimore 
that  night,  but  the  doctor  took  the  packet  in  his 
pocket;  and  the  man  whom  you  saw  come  up 
from  under  the  back  piazza,  colonel,  was  the  man 
who  sent  it  him." 
The  provost-marshal  is  deeply  interested.   Colo- 


78  A  WAK-TIME   WOOING. 

nel  Putnam  sits,  in  a  maze  of  perplexity,  silent 
and  astounded. 

"  The  doctor  was  well  known  to  you,  was  he 
not,  Putnam  ?"  asked  the  marshal. 

The  colonel  starts,  embarrassed  and  troubled. 

"  JSTo.     I  never  saw  him  before." 

"  He  brought  letters  to  you,  didn't  he  ?" 

"  Xo  letters.  In  fact,  it  wasn't  me  whom  he 
came  to  see  at  all." 

"  Whom  did  he  want,  then  ?" 

"  Mr.  Abbot,"  answers  the  colonel,  briefly,  and 
with  growing  embarrassment. 

"  Oh !    Abbot  knew  him,  did  he  ?" 

"  ISTo ;  he  didn't.  That  is  the  singular  part  of 
it.  The  more  I  recall  the  interview  the  more  I'm 
upset." 

"Why  so?" 

"  Because  he  said  he  had  come  to  see  an  old 
friend  of  his  son's  whom  he  mourned  as  killed  at 
Seven  Pines.  He  named  Abbot,  and  said  he  had 
been  in  correspondence  with  him  for  a  3^ear.  As 
luck  would  have  it.  Abbot  was  sitting  right  there 
beside  me,  and  I  said  at  once, '  Here's  your  man,' 
or  something  like  it ;  and  then  Abbot  didn't  know 
him  at  all ;  declared  he  had  never  written  a  hne 
to  him ;  never  heard  of  him.    The  old  gentleman 


A  WAK-TIME   WOOING.  79 

was  completely  floored.  He  vowed  that  for  a 
whole  year  he  had  been  receiving  letters  from 
Lieutenant  Paul  Eevere  Abbot,  and  now  had 
come  to  see  him  because  he  was  reported  severe- 
ly wounded." 

"  Did  he  show  you  any  of  the  letters  ?" 

"  "Why,  no !  He  said  there  were  none  with 
him.  He —  I  declare  I  do  not  know  what  ex- 
cuse he  did  give,"  says  the  colonel,  in  dire  dis- 
tress of  mind. 

The  provost-marshal's  eyes  are  gUttering,  and 
his  face  is  set  and  eager.  He  thinks  intently  one 
moment,  and  then  turns  on  the  silent  colonel  and 
their  perplexed  landlord. 

"  Keep  this  thing  perfectly  quiet,  gentlemen ; 
I  may  have  to  look  further  into  it ;  but  at  this 
moment,  colonel,  circumstances  point  significant- 
ly at  your  friend,  the  doctor.  Do  you  see  noth- 
ing suspicious  in  his  conduct?  His  confident 
claim  of  a  year's  correspondence  with  an  offi- 
cer of  your  regiment  was  possibly  to  gain  your 
friendship  and  protection.  As  ill-luck  for  him 
and  good-luck  for  us  would  have  it,  he  named 
the  wrong  man.  Abbot  was  there,  and  could 
deny  it  on  the  spot.  The  old  man  was  floored, 
of  course ;  but  his  only  way  of  carrpng  the  thing 


80  A  WAK-TIME   WOOING. 

through  was  to  play  the  martyr,  and  tell  the  sto- 
ry that  for  a  year  somebody  had  been  writing  to 
him  daily  or  weekly  over  the  name  of  Abbot. 
What  a  very  improbable  yarn,  Putnam!  Just 
think  for  ^^ourself.  "VYhat  man  would  be  apt  to 
do  that  sort  of  thing?  What  object  could  he 
have?  Why,  the  doctor  himself  well  realized 
what  a  transparent  fiction  it  must  a23pear,  and 
away  he  slips  by  the  night  train  the  moment  he 
gets  back.  And  now  our  friend,  the  landlord, 
throws  further  light  upon  the  matter.  He  was 
here  to  meet  that  night  visitor,  perhaps  convey 
valuable  information  to  him,  but  was  fright- 
ened by  the  blunder  he  had  made,  and  got  away 
as  speedily  as  possible,  and  without  seeing  the 
owner  of  the  beard,  although  a  packet  of  papers 
was  duly  handed  to  him  from  that  mysterious 
party.  Doctor  Warren  may  turn  out  a  candi- 
date for  the  fortress  of  that  name  in  your  own 
harbor,  colonel." 

And,  thinking  it  all  over,  Putnam  cannot  make 
up  his  mind  what  to  say.  There  is  something  in 
his  impression  of  the  doctor  that  utterly  sets  at 
naught  any  belief  that  he  was  acting  a  part. 
He  was  so  simple,  so  direct,  so  genuine  in  his 
manner  and  in  his  distress.     On  the  other  hand, 


A  WAK-TIME  WOOING.  '81 

analyzing  the  situation,  the  colonel  is  compelled 
to  realize  that  to  any  one  but  himself  the  doc- 
tor's story  would  appear  unworthy  of  credence. 
He  is  in  this  uncomfortable  frame  of  mind  when 
a  staff -officer  conres  to  see  him  with  some  papers 
from  the  quartermaster-general  that  call  for  an 
immediate  investigation  of  the  affairs  of  the  miss- 
ing Lieutenant  IloUins,  and  for  two  or  three  days 
Colonel  Putnam  is  away  at  the  supply  depot  on 
the  railway.  It  is  there  that  he  learns  the  pleas- 
ant news  that  his  gallant  young  comrade  has  been 
promoted  to  a  most  desirable  staff  position,  and 
ordered  to  report  for  duty  in  "Washington  as  soon 
as  able  to  travel.  He  writes  a  line  of  congratu- 
lation to  Abbot,  and  begs  him  to  be  sure  and  send 
word  when  he  will  come  through,  so  that  they 
may  meet,  and  then  returns  to  his  patient  over- 
hauling of  the  garbled  accounts  of  the  quondam 
quartermaster. 

ISTo  answer  comes  from  Abbot,  and  the  colonel 
is  so  busy  that  he  thinks  little  of  it.  The  inves- 
tigation is  giving  him  a  world  of  insight  into  the 
crookedness  of  the  late  administration,  and  has 
put  him  in  possession  of  facts  and  given  rise  to 
theories  that  are  of  unusual  interest,  and  so,  when 
he  hears  that  Abbot  was  able  to  leave  the  hospi- 
6 


82  A   WAK-TIME   WOOING. 

tal  and  ride  slowly  in  to  the  railway  and  so  on 
to  Baltimore,  he  merely  regrets  not  having  seen 
him,  and  thinks  little  of  it. 

But  the  provost-marshal  has  been  busily  at 
work ;  has  interviewed  Abbot  and  cross-exam- 
ined the  landlady.  He  has  found  an  officer  who 
says  that  the  night  of  the  escapade  at  Frederick 
his  horse  was  taken  from  in  front  of  the  house 
of  some  friends  he  was  visiting  in  the  southern 
edge  of  the  town,  and  was  found  next  morning 
by  the  pickets  clear  down  at  the  bridge  where 
the  canal  crosses  the  Monocac}^ ;  and  the  pickets 
said  he  looked  as  though  he  had  been  ridden  hard 
and  fast,  and  that  no  trace  of  rider  could  be 
found.  Inquiry  among  patrols  and  guards  de- 
velops the  fact  that  a  man  riding  such  a  horse, 
wearing  such  a  hat  and  cape  as  was  described, 
but  with  a  smooth  face  and  spectacles,  had  passed 
south  during  the  night,  and  claimed  to  be  on  his 
way  to  Point  of  Rocks  with  despatches  for  the 
commanding  officer  from  General  Franklin.  He 
exhibited  an  order  made  out  for  Captain  Hol- 
lister,  and  signed  by  Seth  WilHams,  adjutant- 
general  of  the  army  in  the  field.  'No  such  officer 
had  reached  Point  of  Rocks,  and  the  provost- 
marshal  becomes  satisfied  that  on  or  about  the 


A   WAE-TIME   WOOING.  83 

4:tli  or  5th  of  October  this  very  party  who  was 
prowhng  about  the  town  of  Frederick  has  gotten 
back  into  Virginia,  possibly  with  vahiable  infor- 
mation. 

"When,  on  the  evening  of  the  10th,  there  comes 
the  startUng  news  that  "  Jeb "  Stuart,  with  all 
his  daring  gray  raiders  at  his  back,  has  leaped 
the  Potomac  at  AYilliamsport,  and  is  galloping  up 
the  Cumberland  Yalley  around  McClellan's  right, 
the  provost-marshal  is  convinced  that  the  bold 
dash  is  all  due  to  information  picked  up  under 
his  very  nose  in  the  valley  of  the  Monocacy.  If 
he  ever  had  the  faintest  doubt  of  the  justice  of 
his  suspicions  as  to  ^'  Doctor  Warren's"  compKc- 
ity,  the  doubt  has  been  removed.  Already,  at  his 
instance,  a  secret-service  agent  has  visited  Hast- 
ings, and  wires  back  the  important  news  that  the 
doctor  left  there  about  the  25th  of  September, 
and  has  not  returned.  On  the  11th  he  is  rejoiced 
by  a  telegram  from  Washington  which  tells  him 
that,  acting  on  his  advices,  Doctor  "Warren  had 
been  found,  and  is  now  under  close  surveillance 
at  AYillard's. 

Then  it  is  time  for  him  to  look  out  for  his  own 
movements.  Having  leaped  into  the  Union  lines 
with  all  his  native  grace  and  audacity,  the  cava- 


84  A  WAK-TIME  WOOING. 

lier  Stuart  reposes  a  few  days  at  Chambersburg, 
placidly  surveying  the  neighborhood  and  inviting 
attack.  Then  he  rides  eastward  over  the  South 
Mountain,  and  the  next  heard  of  him  he  is  com- 
ing down  the  Monocacy.  McClellan's  army  is 
encamped  about  Sharpsburg  and  Harper's  Ferry. 
He  has  but  few  cavalry,  and,  at  this  stage  of  the 
war,  none  that  can  compete  successfully  with 
Stuart.  ISTot  knowing  just  w^hat  to  do  against 
so  active  and  calmly  audacious  an  opponent,  the 
Union  general  is  possibly  too  glad  to  get  rid  of 
him  to  attempt  any  check.  To  the  vast  indigna- 
tion, and  disappointment  of  many  young  and  ar- 
dent soldiers  in  our  lines,  he  is  apparently  riding 
homeward  unmolested,  picking  up  such  supplies 
as  he  desires,  parohng  such  prisoners  as  he  does 
not  want  to  burden  himself  with,  and  exchanging 
laughing  greetings  with  old  friends  he  meets  ev- 
erywhere along  the  Monocacy.  At  Point  of 
Eocks,  whither  our  provost-marshal  and  Colonel 
Putnam  are  driven  for  shelter,  together  with  nu- 
merous squads  of  convalescents  and  some  dozen 
stragglers,  there  is  arming  for  defence,  and  every 
intention  of  giving  Jeb  a  sharp  fight  should  he 
attempt  to  pick  up  supplies  or  stragglers  from 
its  sturdy  garrison.    Every  hour  there  is  exciting 


A   WAR-TIME   WOOING.  85 

news  of  his  coming,  and,  with  their  glasses,  the 
officers  can  see  clouds  of  dust  rising  high  in  air 
far  up  the  valle}^  Putnam  has  urgent  reason  for 
wanting  to  rejoin  his  regiment  at  once.  What 
with  the  information  he  has  received  from  the 
two  or  three  officers  whom  he  has  questioned, 
and  the  papers  themselves,  he  has  immediate 
need  of  seeing  the  ex -quartermaster  sergeant, 
Rix.  But  he  cannot  go  when  there  is  a  chance 
for  a  fight  right  here.  Stuart  may  dash  in  west- 
ward, and  have  just  one  lively  tussle  with  them 
to  cover  the  crossing  of  his  valuable  plunder  and 
prisoners  belovv'.  Of  course  they  have  not  men 
enough  to  think  of  confronting  him.  Just  in  the 
midst  of  all  the  excitement  there  comes  an  or- 
derly with  despatches  and  letters  from  up  the 
river,  and  one  of  them  is  for  Putnam,  from  the 
major  commanding  the  regiment.  It  is  brief 
enough,  but  exasperating.  '^  I  greatly  regret  to 
have  to  report  to  you,  in  answer  to  your  direc- 
tions with  regard  to  Eix,  that  they  came  too  late. 
In  some  utterly  unaccountable  way,  though  we 
fear  through  coUusion  on  part  of  a  member  or 
members  of  the  guard,  Eix  made  his  escape  two 
nights  ago,  and  is  now  at  large." 


To  say  that  Paul  Abbot  was  made  very  happy 
over  his  most  miexpected  promotion  would  be 
putting  it  mildly.  He  hates  to  leave  the  old  reg- 
iment, but  he  has  done  hard  fighting,  borne  sev- 
eral hard  knocks,  is  still  weak  and  shaky  from 
recent  wounds ;  and  to  be  summoned  to  Wash- 
ington, there  to  meet  his  proud  father,  and  to 
receive  his  appointment  as  assistant  adjutant- 
general  from  the  hands  of  the  most  distinguished 
representative  "in  Congress  assembled"  of  his 
distinguished  state,  is  something  to  put  new  life 
into  a  young  soldier's  heart.  Duties  for  him 
there  are  none  at  the  moment :  he  is  to  get 
strong  and  well  before  again  taking  the  field, 
and,  for  the  time  being,  he  is  occupying  a  room 
at  Willard's  adjoining  that  of  his  father.  His 
arm  is  still  in  a  sling ;  his  walk  is  still  slow  and 
somewhat  painful ;  he  has  ordered  his  new  uni- 
form, and  meantime  has  procured  the  staff  shoul- 
der-straps and  buttons,  and  put  them  on  his  sack- 


A   WAR-TIME   WOOING.  87 

,coat ;  lie  has  had  many  letters  to  write,  and  much 
pleasant  congratulation  and  compliment  to  ac- 
knowledge ;  and  so  the  three  or  four  days  suc- 
ceeding his  arrival  pass  rapidly  by.     One  after- 
noon he  returns  from  a  drive  with  his  father ; 
they  have  been  out  to  visit  friends  in  camp,  and 
talk  over  home  news,  and  now  he  comes  some- 
what slowly  up  the  stairs  of  the  crowded  hotel 
to  the  quiet  of  the  upper  corridors.     He  smiles 
to  himself  at  the  increasing  ease  with  which  he 
mounts  the  brass-bound  steps,  and  is  thankful  for 
the  health  and  elasticity  returning  to  him.     He 
has  just  had  the  obnoxious  beard  removed,  too ; 
and  freshly  shaved,  except  where  his  blond  mus- 
tache shades  the  short  upper  lip,  with  returning 
color  and  very  bright,  clear  eyes,  the  young  ma- 
jor of  staff  is  a  most  presentable-looking  ^^outh 
as  he  stops  a  moment  to  rest  at  the  top  of  the 
third  flight.     His  undress  uniform  is  decidedly 
becoming,  and  all  the  more  interesting  because 
of  the  sling  that  carries  his  wounded  arm.    And 
now,  after  a  moment's  breathing-spell,  he  walks 
slowly  along  the  carpeted  corridor,  and  turns 
into  the  hall-way  leading  to  his  own  room.  Along 
this  he  goes  some  twenty  paces  or  more,  when 
there  comes  quickly  into  view  from  a  side  gallery 


88  A  WAK-TIME   WOOING. 

the  figure  of  a  tall,  slight,  and  graceful  girl.  She 
has  descended  some  little  flight  of  stairs,  for  he 
could  hear  the  patter  of  her  slippered  feet,  and 
the  swish  of  her  skirts  before  she  appeared. 
JSTow,  with  rapid  step  she  is  coming  straight  tow- 
ards him,  carrying  some  little  glass  phials  in  her 
hand.  The  glare  of  the  afternoon  sun  is  blazing 
in  the  street,  and  at  the  window  behind  her. 
Against  this  glare  she  is  revealed  only  en  silhou- 
ette. Of  her  features  the  young  soldier  can  see 
nothing.  On  the  contrary,  as  he  is  facing  the 
light.  Major  Abbot  realizes  that  every  line  of  his 
countenance  is  open  to  her  gaze.  Before  he  has 
time  to  congratulate  himself  that  recent  shaving 
and  the  new  straps  have  made  liim  more  pre- 
sentable, he  is  astonished  to  see  the  darkly-out- 
lined figure  halt  short :  he  sees  the  slender  hands 
fly  up  to  her  face  in  sudden  panic  or  shock; 
crash  go  the  phials  in  fragments  on  the  floor,  and 
the  young  lady,  staggering  against  the  wall,  is 
going  too — some  stifled  exclamation  on  her  lips. 
Abbot  is  quick,  even  when  crippled.  He  springs 
to  her  side  just  in  time  to  save.  He  throws  his 
left  arm  around  her,  and  has  to  hug  her  close  to 
prevent  her  slipping  through  his  clasp — a  dead 
weight — to  the  floor.     She  has  fainted  away,  he 


A   WAR-TIME   WOOING.  89 

sees  at  a  glance,  and,  looking  about  him,  he  finds 
a  little  alcove  close  at  hand ;  he  knows  it  well, 
for  there  on  the  sofa  he  has  spent  several  restful 
hours  since  his  arrival.  Thither  he  promptly 
bears  her ;  gently  lays  her  down ;  quickly  opens 
the  window  to  give  her  air;  then  steps  across 
the  hall  for  aid.  Xot  a  soul  is  in  sight.  His 
own  room  is  but  a  few  paces  away,  and  thither 
he  hastens ;  returns  speedily  with  a  goblet  of  ice- 
water  in  his  hand,  and  a  slender  flask  of  cologne 
tucked  under  his  arm.  Kneeling  by  the  sofa,  he 
gently  turns  her  face  to  the  hght,  and  sprinkles 
it  with  water;  then  bathes,  with  cologne,  the 
w^hite  temples  and  soft,  rippling,  sunny  hair. 
How  sweet  a  face  it  is  that  lies  there,  all  uncon- 
scious, so  close  to  his  beating  heart !  Though 
colorless  and  marble-hke,  there  is  beauty  in  every 
feature,  and  signs  of  suffering  and  pain  in  the 
dark  circles  about  the  eyes  and  in  the  lines  at  the 
corners  of  the  exquisite  mouth.  Even  as  he  clum- 
sily but  most  assiduously  mops  with  his  one  avail- 
able hand  and  looks  vaguely  around  for  feminine 
assistance,  Major  Abbot  is  conscious  of  a  feeling 
of  proprietorship  and  confidence  that  is  as  unwar- 
ranted, probably,  as  it  is  new.  'Tis  only  a  faint, 
he  is  certain.     She  will  come  to  in  a  moment,  so 


9.0  A  WAR-TIME   WOOING. 

why  be  worried  ?  But  then,  of  course,  'twill  be 
embarrassing  and  painful  to  her  not  to  find  some 
sympathetic  female  face  at  hand  when  she  does 
revive ;  and  he  looks  about  him  for  a  bell-rope : 
none  nearer  than  the  room,  and  he  hates  to  leave 
her.  At  last  comes  a  little  shivering  sigh,  a 
long  gasp.  Then  he  holds  the  goblet  to  her  lips 
and  begs  her  to  sip  a  little  water,  and,  somehow, 
she  does,  and  with  another  moment  a  pair  of 
lovely  eyes  has  opened,  and  she  is  gazing  wildly 
into  his." 

"Lie  still  one  minute,"  he  murmurs.  "You 
have  been  faint ;  I  will  bring  your  friends." 

But  a  little  hand  feebly  closes  on  his  wrist. 
She  is  trying  to  speak ;  her  hps  are  moving,  and 
he  bends  his  handsome  head  close  to  hers ;  per- 
haps she  can  tell  him  whom  to  summon. 

But  he  starts  back,  amazed,  when  the  broken, 
haK  -  intelligible,  almost  inaudible  words  reach 
his  ears, 

"Paul!  Papa — said — you  were  killed.  Oh! 
he  will  be  so  glad !" 

And  then  comes  a  burst  of  tears. 

Abbot  rises  to  his  feet  and  hurries  into  the 
hall.  He  is  bewildered  by  her  words.  He  feels 
that  it  must  be  some  case  of  mistaken  identity, 


liillilliililiiiliiJillllllSi  lE^^iak 


A   WAE-TIME   WOOING.  91 

but — how  strange  a  coincidence !  Close  by  the 
fragments  of  the  phials  he  finds  a  door  key  and 
the  presumable  number  of  her  room.  Only  ten 
steps  away  from  the  little  flight  of  stairs  he  finds 
a  corresponding  door,  and,  next,  an  open  room. 
Looking  therein,  he  sees  a  gentle,  matronly  wom- 
an seated  by  a  bedside,  slowly  fanning  some  re- 
cumbent invalid.  She  puts  her  fingers  on  her 
lips,  warningly,  as  she  sees  the  uniform  at  her 
door. 

"  Do  not  wake  him,  it  is  the  first  sound  sleep 
he  has  had  for  days,"  she  says.  "  Is  this  the  army 
doctor?" 

"  ^o,"  he  whispers,  "  a  young  lady  has  just 
fainted  down  in  the  next  corridor.  Her  room 
adjoins  this.     Do  you  know  her  ?" 

''  Oh,  Heaven !  I  might  have  known  it.  Poor 
child,  she  is  utterly  worn  out.  This  is  her  father. 
Will  you  stay  here  just  a  few  moments?  His 
son  was  a  soldier,  too,  and  was  killed — and  so 
was  her  lover — and  it  has  nearly  killed  the  poor 
old  gentleman.     I'll  go  at  once." 

Still  puzzling  over  his  strange  adventure,  and 
thinking  only  of  the  sweet  face  of  the  faint- 
ing girl.  Abbot  mechanically  takes  the  fan  the 
nurse  has  resigned  and  slowly  sweeps  the  cir- 


92  ,       A   WAK-TIME  WOOING. 

cling  flies  away.  The  invalid  lies  on  his  right 
side  with  his  face  to  the  wall ;  but  the  soft,  curl- 
ing gray  hair  ripples  under  the  waves  of  air 
stirred  by  the  languid  movement  of  the  fan. 
The  features  have  not  yet  attracted  his  attention. 
He  is  listening  intently  for  sounds  from  the  cor- 
ridor. His  thoughts  are  with  the  girl  who  has 
so  strangely  moved  him  ;  so  strangely  called  his 
name  and  looked  up  into  his  eyes  with  a  sweet 
light  of  recognition  in  hers — with  a  wild  thrill  of 
delight  and  hope  in  them,  unless  all  signs  deceive 
him.  The  color,  too,  that  was  rushing  into  her 
face,  the  sudden  storm  of  emotion  that  bursts 
in  tears ;  what  meant  all  this — all  this  in  a  girl 
whom  never  before  had  he  seen  in  all  his  life  ? 
Yerily,  strange  experiences  were  these  he  was 
going  through.  Only  a  week  or  so  before  had 
not  that  gray-haired  old  doctor  shown  almost  as 
deep  an  emotion  on  meeting  him  at  Frederick? 
And  was  he  not  prostrated  when  assured  of  his 
mistake,  and  was  it  not  hard  to  convince  him 
that  the  letters  to  which  he  persistently  referred 
were  foro-eries  ?  Some  scoundrel  who  claimed  to 
know  his  son  was  striving  to  bleed  him  for  money, 
probably,  and  using,  of  all  others,  the  name  of 
Paul  Abbot.     And  this  poor  old  gentleman  here 


A   WAR-TIME   WOOING.  93 

had  also  lost  a  son,  and  the  sweet,  fragile-looking 
girl  a  lover !  How  peacefully  the  old  man  sleeps, 
thinks  Abbot,  as  he  glances  a  moment  around  the 
room.  There  are  flowers  on  the  table  near  the 
open  window;  books,  too,  which,  perhaps,  she 
had  tried  to  read  aloud.  The  window  opens  out 
over  Pennsylvania  Avenue,  and  the  hum  and 
bustle  of  thronging  life  comes  floating  up  from 
below ;  a  roar  of  drums  is  growing  louder  every 
minute,  and  presently  bursts  upon  the  ear  as 
though,  just  issuing  from  a  neighboring  street, 
the  drummers  vrere  marching  forth  upon  the 
avenue.  Abbot  glances  at  his  patient,  fearful 
lest  the  noise  should  wake  him,  but  he  sleeps  the 
sleep  of  exhausted  nature,  and  the  soldier  in  his 
temporary  nurse  prompts  him  to  steal  to  the  win- 
dow and  look  down  upon  the  troops.  They  are 
marching  south,  along  Fourteenth  Street — a  regi- 
ment going  over  to  the  fortifications  beyond  the 
Long  Bridge,  and,  after  a  glance.  Abbot  steps 
quickly  back.  On  the  table  nearest  the  window 
lies  a  dainty  writing-case,  a  woman's,  and  the 
flap  is  down  on  a  half-finished  letter.  On  the 
letter,  haK  disclosed,  is  the  photograph  of  an 
officer.  It  is  strangely  familiar  as  Abbot  steps 
towards  it.     Then — the  roar  of  the  drums  seems 


94  A   WAK-TIME   WOOING. 

deafening;  the  walls  of  the  little  room  seem 
turning  upside  down;  his  brain  is  in  some 
strange  and  sudden  whirl ;  but  there  in  his 
hands  he  holds,  beyond  all  question — his  own 
picture — a  photograph  by  Brady,  taken  when  he 
was  in  Washington  during  the  previous  summer. 
He  has  not  recovered  his  senses  when  there  is  an 
uneasy  movement  at  the  bed.  The  gray-haired 
patient  turns  Avearily  and  throws  himself  on 
the  other  side,  and  now,  though  haggard  and 
worn  with  suffering,  there  is  no  forgetting  that 
sorrow-stricken  old  face.  In  an  instant  Major 
Abbot  has  recognized  his  visitor  of  the  week  be- 
fore. There  before  him  lies  Doctor  "Warren. 
Who — idIw  then  is  she  f 


YI. 

Sitting  hy  the  open  AYindo^y  and  looking  out 
over  the  busthng  street  Major  Abbot  later  in  the 
evening  is  trying  to  collect  his  senses  and  con- 
vince himself  that  he  really  is  himself.  "  It  never 
rains  but  it  pours,"  and  events  have  been  pouring 
upon  him  with  confusing  rapidity.  Early  in  the 
summer  he  had  noted  an  odd  constraint  in  the 
tone  of  the  few  letters  that  came  from  Miss  Win- 
throp.  That  they  were  few  and  far  between  was 
not  in  itself  a  matter  to  give  him  much  discom- 
fort. From  boyliood  he  had  been  accustomed  to 
the  household  cry  that  at  some  time  in  the  fut- 
ure— the  distant  future — Yiva  Winthrop  was  to 
be  his  wife.  He  had  known  her  quite  as  long  as 
he  had  been  conscious  of  his  own  existence,  and 
the  relations  between  the  families  were  such  as 
to  render  the  alliance  desirable.  Excellent  friends 
were  the  young  people  as  they  grew  to  years  of 
discretion,  and,  in  the  eyes  of  parents  and  in- 
timate acquaintances,  no  formal  betrothal  was 


96  A   WAE-TIME   WOOmG. 

ever  necessary,  simply  because  "  it  was  such  an 
understood  thing."  For  more  than  a  year  pre- 
vious to  the  outbreak  of  the  war,  however.  Miss 
Winthrop  was  in  Europe,  and  much  of  the  time, 
it  was  said,  she  had  been  studying.  So  had  Mr. 
Ilollins,  who  withdrew  from  Harvard  in  his  sec- 
ond year  and  read  law  assiduously  in  the  office 
of  Winthrop  &  Lawrence,  and  then  went  abroad 
for  his  health.  They  returned  on  the  Cunarder 
in  the  early  part  of  April,  and  Mrs.  Winslow  was 
ill  from  the  time  she  set  foot  on  the  saloon  deck 
until  they  sighted  the  State  House  looming 
through  the  fog,  and  nothing  could  have  been 
more  fortunate  than  that  Mr.  HoUins  was  with 
them — he  was  so  attentive,  so  very  thoughtful. 
When  he  wasn't  doing  something  for  her  he  was 
promenading  with  Yiva  on  deck  or  bundling  that 
young  lady  in  warm  wraps  and  hedging  her  in 
a  sunny  corner.  Pity  that  Mr.  Holhns  was  so 
poor  and  rather  obscure  in  his  family — his  im- 
mediate family  —  connections.  His  mother  was 
Mr.  "Winthrop's  first  cousin,  and  she  had  been 
very  fond  of  Mr.  Winthrop  when  she  was  a  child, 
and  he  had  befriended  her  son  when  a  friend 
was  needed.  She  died  years  ago,  and  no  one 
knew  just  when  her  husband  followed  her.     He 


A    WAR-TENIE   WOOING.  97 

was  a  person  no  one  ever  met,  said  Mrs.  "Win- 
throp,  a  man  who  had  a  singular  career,  was  an 
erratic  genius,  and  very  dissipated.  But  he  was 
a  very  fascinating  person,  she  understood,  in  his 
younger  days,  and  his  son  was  most  talented 
and  deserving,  but  entirely  out  of  the  question 
as  an  intimate  or  associate.  Yiva  would  not  be 
apt  to  see  anything  of  him  after  their  return ;  but 
the  question  never  seemed  to  occur  to  her,  how 
much  had  the  daughter  been  influenced  by  their 
frequent  companionship  abroad  ?  It  really  mat- 
tered nothing.  Yiva  was  to  marry  Eevere  Ab- 
bot, as  Mrs.  Winthrop  preferred  to  call  him,  and 
such  was  distinctly  the  family  understanding. 
Miss  Winthrop  had  been  home  but  a  few  weeks 
when  all  the  JS'orth  was  thrilled  by  the  stirring 
call  for  volunteers,  and  the  old  Bay  State  re- 
sponded, as  was  to  be  expected  of  her.  In  the 
— th  Massachusetts  Avere  a  score  of  ofiicers,  as 
has  been  said,  whose  names  were  as  old  as  the 
colony  and  whose  family  connections  made  them 
thoroughly  well  known  to  each  other  at  the  ear- 
liest organization  of  the  command.  That  Paul 
Abbot  should  be  among  the  first  to  seek  a  com- 
mission as  a  junior  lieutenant  was  naturally  ex- 
pected. Then  with  all  possible  hesitancy  and 
1 


98  A  WAE-TIME   WOOING. 

delicacy,  after  a  feminine  council  in  the  family, 
his  mother  asked  him  if  he  did  not  think  there 
ought  to  be  some  distinct  understanding  about 
Yiva  Winthrop  before  he  went  away  to  the 
front.  The  matter  was  something  that  he  had 
thought  of  before  she  went  to  Europe,  but  be- 
lieved then  that  it  could  wait.  Xow  that  she 
had  returned,  improved  both  physically  and  in- 
tellectually, Mr.  Abbot  had  once  or  twice  thought 
that  it  would  not  be  long  before  lie  would  be 
asked  some  such  question  as  his  mother  now  pro- 
pounded, but  again  decided  that  it  was  a  matter 
that  could  be  deferred.  They  had  met  with 
much  hearty  cordiality,  and  called  each  other 
Paul  and  Yiva,  as  they  had  from  babj^hood,  and 
then  she  had  a  round  of  social  duties  and  he  be- 
came absorbed  in  drills,  day  and  night,  and  they 
saw  very  httle  of  each  other — much  less  than  was 
entirely  satisfactory  to  the  parental  councils,  and 
these  were  frequent.  While  the  masters  of  the 
households  of  Abbot  and  Winthrop  seldom  inter- 
changed a  word  on  the  subject,  they  had  their 
personal  views  none  the  less;  and,  as  to  the 
mothers,  their  hearts  had  long  been  set  upon  the 
match.  Miss  Winthrop  had  abundant  wealth  in 
her  own  right.     Paul  Abbot's  blood  was  blue  as 


A   WAE-TIME   WOOING.  99 

the  doctrines  of  the  Puritans.  Without  being  a 
beauty  in  face  or  form,  Miss  Winthrop  was  un- 
questionably distinguished-looking,  and  her  repu- 
tation for  a  certain  acerbity  of  temper  and  the 
faculty  of  saying  cutting  things  did  not  materi- 
ally lower  her  value  in  the  matrimonial  market. 
There  was,  however,  that  consta^ntly  recurring 
statement,  "  Oh,  she's  engaged  to  Paul  Abbot," 
and  that,  presumably,  accounted  for  the  lack  of 
those  attentions  in  society  which  are  so  intangi- 
ble when  assailed,  and  yet  leave  such  a  void  when 
omitted.  Mrs.  Abbot  put  it  very  plainly  to  Paul 
when  she  said : 

"Everybody  considers  her  as  virtually  engaged 
to  you  and  expects  you  to  look  after  her.  That 
is  why  I  say  it  is  due  to  her  that  you  should 
arrive  at  some  understanding  before  your  orders 
come." 

Paul  had  come  up  from  camp  that  day — a 
Saturday  afternoon — and  he  stood  there  in  the 
old  family  gathering  room,  a  very  handsome 
young  soldier.  He  had  listened  in  silence  and 
respect  while  his  mother  spoke,  but  without  much 
sign  of  responsive  feeling.  When  she  had  fin- 
ished he  looked  her  full  in  the  face  and  quietly 
said: 


100  A   WAR-TIME   WOOING. 

"  And  is  there  any  other  reason,  mother  ?" 

Mrs.  Abbot  flushed.  There  was  another  rea- 
son, and  one  that  after  much  mental  dodging  both 
she  and  Mrs.  Winthrop  had  been  compelled  to 
admit  to  each  other  within  a  very  few  days. 
Mr.  Hollins  was  constantly  finding  means  to 
come  over  to  the  city  and  see  Miss  Winthrop, 
and  the  ladies  could  not  grapple  with  the  intri- 
cacies of  a  mihtary  problem  which  permitted  one 
officer  to  be  in  town  three  or  four  days  a  week 
and  kept  the  others  incessantly  drilling  at  camp. 
Mrs.  Abbot,  motherlike,  had  more  than  once  sug- 
gested to  her  son  that  he  ought  to  be  able  to  visit 
town  more  frequently,  and  on  his  replying  that  it 
was  simply  impossible,  and  that  none  of  the  offi- 
cers could  leave  their  duties,  had  triumphantly 
pointed  to  Mr.  Hollins. 

"But  he  is  quartermaster,"  said  Paul,  "and 
has  to  come  on  business." 

"  He  manages  to  combine  a  good  deal  of  pleas- 
ure vfiih  his  business,"  was  the  tentative  response, 
and  Abbot  knew  that  he  was  expected  to  ask 
the  nature  of  Mr.  Hollins's  pleasures.  He  was 
silent,  however,  much  to  his  mother's  disappoint- 
ment, for  he  had  heard  from  other  sources  of  the 
frequency  with  which  Mr.  Hollins  and  Miss  Win- 


A   WAR-TIME   WOOING.  101 

throp  were  seen  together.  Finding  that  he  would 
not  ask,  Mrs.  Abbot  was  compelled  to  suppress 
the  inchnation  she  felt  to  have  her  suspicions 
dragged  to  light.  She  wished  he  had  more  curi- 
osity, or  jealousy,  or  something ;  but  in  its  ab- 
sence she  could  only  say, 

"Well,  I  wish  you  were  quartermaster,  that's 
aU." 

And  now  that  he  had  asked  her  if  there  w^ere 
no  other  reason,  there  was  something  in  his  placid 
tone  she  did  not  like.  A  month  agone  she  wanted 
him  to  know  of  Mr.  Hollins's  evident  attentions 
to  Genevieve  because  it  would  ^^robably,  or  pos- 
sibly, spur  him  into  some  exertion  on  his  ov^n 
account.  Now  that  she  felt  sure  he  had  heard  of 
it,  and  it  had  not  spurred  him,  she  was  as  anx- 
ious to  conceal  the  fact  that,  both  to  Mrs.  Win- 
throp  and  herself,  these  attentions  were  becom- 
ing alarming.  If  he  did  not  care  for  Yiva,  the 
chances  were  that  so  soon  as  he  found  that  pub- 
lic attention  had  been  drawn  to  her  acceptance 
of  such  devotions,  Paul  would  drop  the  matter 
entirely,  and  that  would  be  a  calamity.  Know- 
ing perfectly  well,  therefore,  what  was  in  his 
mind  when  he  asked  the  question,  Mrs.  Abbot 
parried  the  thrust.    Though  she  flushed,  and  her 


102  A   WAR-TIME    WOOING. 

voice  quivered  a  little,  she  looked  him  straight  in 
the  face. 

"There  is,  Paul.  I  —  think  she  has  a  right  to 
expect  it  of  you  ;  that — that  she  does  expect  it." 

Abbot  looked  with  undisguised  perplexity  into 
his  mother's  face. 

"  You  surprise  me  very  much,  mother ;  I  can- 
not see  how  Yiva  would  betray  such  an  idea, 
even  if  she  had  it ;  it  is  not  Hke  her." 

"Women  see  these  things  where  men  cannot," 
was  the  somewhat  sententious  replj^  "  Besides, 
Paul—" 

"  Well,  mother,  besides — ?" 

"  Mrs.  Winthrop  has  told  me  as  much." 

That  evening,  before  returning  to  camp.  Lieu- 
tenant Abbot  went  round  the  square  —  or  what 
is  the  Bostonian  equivalent  therefor — and  sur- 
prised Miss  Winthrop  with  a  call.  He  told  her 
what  he  had  not  told  his  mother,  that  Colonel 
Ea^^mond  that  morning  received  a  telegram  from 
Washington  saying  that  on  the  following  Tues- 
day they  must  be  in  readiness  to  start. 

"  We  have  been  good  friends  always,  Yiva,"  he 
said;  "but  you  have  been  something  more  to 
me  than  that.  I  did  not  mean  to  make  so  sud- 
den an  avowal,  but  soldiers  have  no  time  to  call 


A  WAE-TIME   WOOING.  l03 

their  own  just  now,  and  every  honr  has  been 
given  up  to  duty  with  the  regiment.  Kow  this 
sharp  summons  comes  and  I  must  go.  If  I  re- 
turn, shall  we — "  (he  had  almost  said,  "  shall  we 
fulfil  our  manifest  destiny,  and  make  our  parents 
happy  ?"  but  had  sense  enough  to  realize  that  she 
was  entitled  to  a  far  more  personal  proposition). 
He  broke  off  nervously. 

"  You  have  always  been  so  dear  to  me,  Yiva. 
Will  you  be  my  wife  ?" 

She  was  sitting  on  the  sofa,  nervously  twisting 
the  cords  of  a  fan  in  and  out  among  her  slender 
white  fingers.  Iler  eyes  were  downcast  and  her 
cheeks  suffused.  For  an  instant  she  looked  up 
and  a  question  seemed  trembling  on  her  lips. 
She  was  a  truthful  woman  and  no  coward. 
There  was  something  she  was  entitled  to  know, 
something  the  heart  within  her  craved  to  know, 
yet  she  knew  not  how  to  ask,  or,  if  she  did,  was 
too  proud  to  frame  the  words,  to  plead  for  that 
thing  of  all  others  which  a  woman  prizes  and 
glories  in,  yet  will  never  knowingly  beg  of  any 
man — his  honest  and  outspoken  love.  She  looked 
down  again,  silent. 

His  tone  softened  and  his  voice  quivered  a  lit- 
tle as  he  bent  over  her. 


104  A   WAE-TIME   WOOING. 

"  Has  any  one  else  won  away  the  heart  of  my 
little  girl-love?"  he  asked.  "We  were  sweet- 
hearts so  long,  Yiva ;  but  have  you  learned  to 
care  for  some  other  ?" 

"  Ko.     It— it  is  not  that." 

"  Then  cannot  you  find  a  little  love  for  me 
left  over  from  the  childish  days  ?  You  were  so 
loyal  to  me  then,  Yiva — and  it  would  make  our 
home  people  so  happy." 

"  I  suppose  it  might — them." 

"  Then  promise  me,  dear ;  I  go  so  soon,  and — " 

She  interrupted  him  now,  impetuously.  Look- 
ing straight  up  into  his  eyes,  she  spoke  in  low. 
vehement  tone,  rapidly,  almost  angrily. 

"  On  this  condition,  Paul ;  on  this  condition. 
You  ask  me  to  be  your  wife  and— and  I  suppose 
it  is  what  is  expected  of  us  —  what  you  have  ex- 
pected all  along,  and  are  entitled  to  an  answer 
now.  Promise  me  this,  if  ever  you  have  a  thought 
for  another  woman,  if  ever  you  feel  in  your  heart 
that  perhaps  another  girl  would  make  you  hap- 
pier, or  if— if  you  feel  the  faintest  growing 
fancy  for  another,  that  you  will  tell  me." 

He  smiled  gravely  as  he  encircled  her  in  his 
arm.     She  drew  back,  but  he  held  her. 

"  Why,  Yiva,  I  have  never  had  a  thought  for 


A   WAR-TIME   WOOING.  105 

any  other  girl.  I  simply  thought  you  might 
care  for  some  one  more  than  you  did  for  me. 
It  is  settled,  then  —  I  promise,"  and  he  bent  and 
softly  kissed  her. 

They  met  again — twice — before  the  regiment 
took  the  cars.  It  had  been  settled  that  no  an- 
nouncement of  the  engagement  should  be  made, 
but  there  are  some  secrets  mothers  cannot  keep, 
and  there  were  not  lacking  men  and  women  to 
obtrude  premature  "congratulations"  even  on 
the  day  she  came  with  mothers,  sisters,  cousins, 
and  sweethearts  by  the  score  to  witness  the 
presentation  of  colors  and  say  adieu.  That  af- 
ternoon the  regimental  quartermaster  returned 
from  the  city  after  a  stay  of  thirty-six  hours, 
thirty  of  wdiich  were  unauthorized,  and  it  was 
rumored  that  Colonel  Eaymond  was  very  angr}^ 
and  had  threatened  extreme  measures.  It  was 
this  prospect,  possibly,  that  shrouded  ]\Ir.  IloUins's 
face  in  gloom,  but  most  people  were  disposed  to 
think  that  he  had  taken  the  engagement  very 
much  to  heart.  There  were  many  who  consid- 
ered that,  despite  the  fact  of  his  lack  of  fortune, 
birth,  and  "  position,"  Mr.  Hollins  had  been  treat- 
ed very  shabbily  by  the  heiress.  There  were  a 
few  who  said  that  but  for  his  ''  lacks  "  she  would 


106  A   WAR-TIME   WOOING. 

have  married  him.  What  she  herself  said  was 
something  that  caused  Mr.  Abbot  a  good  deal  of 
wonderment  and  reflection. 

"  Paul,  I  want  you  to  promise  me  another 
thing.  Mr.  Hollins  has  very  few  friends  in  the 
regiment.  He  is  poor,  sensitive,  and  he  feels  it 
keenly.  He  is  our  kinsman,  though  distant,  and 
he  placed  me  under  obligations  abroad  by  his 
devotion  to  mother,  and  his  courtesy  to  me  when 
we  needed  attention.  He  thinks  you  dislike  him, 
as  well  as  many  of  the  others.  Eemember  what 
he  is  to  us,  and  how  hard  a  struggle  he  has  had, 
and  be  kind  to  him — for  me." 

And  though  his  college  remembrances  of  Mr. 
Hollins  were  not  tinged  with  romance,  Paul  Ab- 
bot was  too  glad  and  proud  in  the  thought  of 
going  to  the  front — too  happy  and  prosperous, 
perhaps,  to  feel  anything  but  pity  for  the  quar- 
termaster's isolation.  He  made  the  promise,  and 
found  its  fulfilment,  before  they  had  been  away 
a  fortnight,  a  very  irksome  thing.  Hollins  fairly 
lived  at  his  tent  and  better  men  kept  away. 
Gradually  they  had  drifted  apart.  Gradually 
the  feeling  of  coldness  and  aversion  had  become 
so  marked  that  he  could  not  conceal  it ;  and  final- 
ly, after  one  of  the  frequent  lapses  of  which  the 


A  WAE-TIME   WOOING.  107 

quartermaster  was  guilty,  there  had  come  rupt- 
ure of  all  social  relations,  and  the  only  associate 
left  to  Mr.  Hollins  was  the  strange  character 
whom  he  had  foisted  upon  the  regiment  at  its 
organization — the  quondam  quartermaster  -  ser- 
geant, Kix. 

But  in  all  the  marching  and  fighting  of  the 
battle  summer  of  '62,  these  things  were  of  less 
account  than  they  had  been  during  the  inaction 
of  the  winter  and  early  spring,  until,  at  the  Mo- 
nocacy,  Mr.  Abbot's  curiosity  was  excited  by  the 
singular  language  used  by  Eix  when  ordered 
under  guard.  "What  could  such  a  man  as  he 
have  to  do  with  the  affairs,  personal  or  profes- 
sional, of  the  officers  of  the  regiment?  It  was 
rabid  nonsense — idle  boasting,  no  doubt ;  and 
yet  the  new-made  major  found  that  melodra- 
matic threat  recurring  to  his  mind  time  and  again. 

Another  thing  that  perplexed  him  was  the  fact 
already  alluded  to,  that  during  the  winter  Yi- 
va's  letters,  never  too  frequent  or  long,  had  be- 
gun to  grow  longer  as  to  interval  and  shorter 
as  to  contents.  He  made  occasional  reference 
to  the  fact,  but  was  referred  to  the  singular  cir- 
cumstance that  ^'  he  began  it."  Matters  were 
mended  for  a  while,  then  drifted  into  the  old 


108  A   WAR-TIME   WOOING. 

channel  again.  Then  came  the  stirring  inci- 
dents of  June ;  the  sharp,  hard  inarches  of  July 
and  August ;  the  thrilling  battles  of  Cedar  Moun- 
tain and  Second  Bull  Kun ;  and  he  felt  that  his 
letters  were  hardly  missed.  Then  came  the  dash 
at  Turner's  Gap  ;  his  wounds,  rest,  recovery,  and 
promotion.  But  there  was  silence  at  home.  He 
had  not  missed  her  letters  before.  Now  he  felt 
that  they  ought  to  come,  and  had  w^ritten  more 
than  once  to  say  so. 

And  now,  alone  in  his  room,  he  is  trying  to 
keep  cool  and  clear-headed ;  to  fathom  the  mys- 
tery of  his  predicament  before  going  to  his  father 
and  telling  him  that  between  Genevieve  Win- 
throp  and  himself  there  has  arisen  a  cloud  which 
at  any  moment  may  burst  in  storm. 

Her  letter — the  first  received  since  Antietam — 
he  has  read  over  time  and  again.  It  must  be 
confessed  that  there  is  a  good  deal  therein  to 
anger  an  honest  man,  and  Abbot  believes  he  is 
entitled  to  that  distinction : 

"You  demand  the  reason  for  my  silence,  and  shall  have 
it.  I  did  not  wish  to  endanger  your  recovery,  and  so  have 
kept  my  trouble  to  myself,  but  now  I  write  to  tell  you  that 
the  farce  is  ended.  You  have  utterly  broken  your  promise  ; 
I  am  absolved  from  mine.    The  fact  that  you  could  find  time 


A   WAK-TIME   WOOING.  109 

to  write  day  after  day  to  Miss  Warren,  and  neglect  me  for 
weeks,  would  in  itself  be  justification  for  demanding  my  re- 
lease from  an  engagement  you  have  held  so  lightly.  But 
that  you  should  have  sought  and  won  another's  love  even 
while  your  honor  was  pledged  to  me,  is  more  than  enough. 
I  do  not  ask  release.     I  break  the  bond — once  and  for  all. 

"  You  will  have  no  place  to  receive  your  letters  at  the  front. 
They,  with  your  ring,  and  certain  gifts  with  which  you  have 
honored  me  from  time  to  time,  will  be  found  in  a  packet 
which  is  this  day  forwarded  to  your  mother. 

"  Genevieve  Winthrop." 

Abbot  is  seated  with  his  head  buried  in  his 
hands.  That  name  again  !  the  girl  who  fainted 
at  sight  of  him !  the  old  man  who  was  prostrate 
at  his  denial  on  the  Monocacy !  the  picture  of 
himself  in  he)'  desk !  and  now,  this  bitter,  in- 
sulting letter  from  the  woman  who  was  to  have 
been  his  wife !  Kix's  words  at  the  field  hospi- 
tal ! — what  in  Heaven's  name  can  it  all  mean  ? 
What  network  of  crime  and  mystery  is  this  that 
is  thrown  around  him  ? 

There  is  a  sudden  knock  at  the  door — a  negro 
Avaiter  with  a  telegram : 

"  Point  of  Rocks,  Md.,  Oct.  —,1862. 
"Major  Paul  R.  Abbot, 

Willard's  Hotel,  Washington  : 
"HoUins  still  missing ;  believed  to  have  followed  you  to 
Washington.    Use  every  effort  to  secure  arrest. 

* '  Putnam.  " 


YII. 

There  is  an  air  of  unusual  excitement  about 
the  War  Department  this  bright  October  day. 
It  is  only  a  month  since  the  whole  army  seemed 
tramping  through  the  streets  on  its  way  to  the 
field  of  the  Antietam;  only  three  weeks  since 
the  news  was  received  that  Lee  was  beaten  back 
across  the  Potomac,  and  every  one  expected  that 
McClellan  would  be  hot  on  his  trail,  eager  to 
pursue  and  punish  before  the  daring  Southerners 
could  receive  accessions.  But  though  two  corps 
managed  to  reoccupy  Harper's  Ferry  and  there 
go  into  camp,  the  bulk  of  the  army  has  remained 
where  Lee  left  it  when  he  slipped  from  its  grasp, 
and  McClellan's  cry  is  for  reinforcements.  Three 
weeks  of  precious  time  slip  by,  and  then — back 
come  those  daredevils  of  Stuart's,  riding  with 
laugh  and  taunt  and  jeer  all  around  the  Union 
forces ;  and  there  is  the  mischief  to  pay  here  in 
"Washington,  for  if  he  should  take  a  notion  to 
pay  the  capital  a  visit  on  his  homeward  trip,  what 


^  1 


Back  cmne  those  daredevils  of  Stuart's. 


A  WAR-TIME   WOOING.  Ill 

would  the  consequences  be  ?  Of  course  there  are 
troops — lots  of  them — all  around  in  the  fortifi- 
cations. The  trouble  is,  that  we  have  so  few 
cavalry,  and,  after  all,  the  greatest  trouble  is  the 
old  one — those  fellows,  Stuart  and  Jackson,  have 
such  a  consummate  faculty  of  making  a  very 
little  go  a  great  way.  All  that  is  known  of 
Stuart's  present  move  is,  that  he  is  somewhere 
up  the  Cumberland  Yalley ;  that  telegraphic 
communication  beyond  McClellan's  headquar- 
ters is  broken,  and  that  it  is  more  than  likely 
he  will  come  hitherwards  when  he  chooses  to 
make  his  next  start. 

Going  to  the  War  Department  to  make  in- 
quiries for  the  provost-marshal,  and  show  him 
Putnam's  telegram,  Major  Abbot  finds  that  offi- 
cial too  busy  to  see  him,  "  unless  it  be  something 
urgent,"  says  the  subaltern,  who  seems  to  be  an 
aide-de-camp  of  some  kind. 

"  I  have  come  to  show  him  a  despatch  received 
last  night — late — from  Point  of  Rocks." 

"  You  are  Major  Abbot,  formerly  — th  Mas- 
sachusetts, I  believe,  and  your  despatch  is  about 
the  missing  quartermaster,  is  it  not  ?" 

"  Yes,"  replies  Abbot,  in  surprise. 

"  We  have  the  duplicate  of  the  despatch  here," 


112  A   WAK-TIME   WOOING. 

says  the  young  officer,  smiling.  "You  would 
know  Hollins  at  once,  would  you  not  ?" 

"  Yes,  anywhere,  I  think." 

"  One  of  the  secret-service  men  will  come  in 
to  see  you  this  morning  if  you  will  kindly  remain 
at  your  room  until  eleven  or  twelve  o'clock.  Par- 
don me,  major,  you  saw  this  Doctor  Warren  at 
Frederick,  did  you  not  ?" 

"  Yes.  The  evening  he  came  out  to  the  field 
hospital." 

"Did  he  impress  you  as  a  man  who  told  a 
perfectly  straight  story,  and  properly  accounted 
for  himself?" 

"  Why —  You  put  it  in  a  way  that  never  oc- 
curred to  me  before,"  says  the  major,  in  bewil- 
derment. "  Do  you  mean  that  there  was  any- 
thing wrong  about  him  ?" 

"  Strictly  entre  nous,  major — something  dam- 
nably w^rong.  He  was  all  mixed  up  on  meeting 
you,  we  are  told.  He  claimed  to  have  known 
and  been  in  correspondence  with  you,  did  he 
not?" 

"Yes;  he  did.     But—" 

"That  is  only  one  of  several  trips  he  made. 
There  are  extraordinary  rumors  coming  in  about 
spies  around  Frederick,  and  there  seems  to  be  an 


A  WAR-TIME   WOOING.  113 

organized  gang.  It  is  this  very  matter  the  gen- 
eral is  overhauhng  now,  and  he  gave  orders  that 
he  should  be  uninterrupted  until  he  had  finished 
the  correspondence.     "Will  you  Avait  V 

"Thank  you,  no.  I  believed  it  my  duty  to 
show  him  this  despatch,  but  he  knows  as  much 
as,  or  more  than,  I  do.  May  I  ask  if  you  have 
any  inkling  of  Ilollins's  whereabouts." 

*']Srot  even  a  susjDicion.  He  simply  dropped 
out  of  sight,  and  no  man  in  the  army  appears  to 
have  set  eyes  on  him  since  the  night  before  An- 
tietam.  Colonel  Putnam  is  investigating  his  ac- 
counts at  Point  of  Eocks,  and  is  most  eager  to 
get  him." 

Major  Abbot  turns  away  with  a  heavy  weight 
at  heart.  All  of  a  sudden  there  has  burst  upon 
him  a  comphcation  of  injustice  and  mystery,  of 
annoyance  and  perplexity  that  is  hard  to  bear. 
In  some  way  he  feels  that  the  disappearance  of 
the  quartermaster  is  a  connecting  link  in  the 
chain  of  circumstance.  He  associates  him,  vague- 
ly, with  each  and  every  one  of  the  incidents 
which  have  puzzled  him  within  the  month  past — 
with  Rix,  with  Doctor  Warren's  coming,  with 
that  cold  and  bitter  letter  from  Miss  Winthrop, 
and  finally  with  the  shock  and  faintness  that 
overcame  this  fair  young  girl  at  sight  of  him. 


114:  A   WAR-TIME   WOOING. 

To  his  father  he  has  shown  Miss  Winthrop's 
letter,  and  briefly  sketched  the  visit  of  Doctor 
Warren,  and  the  sudden  meeting  with  his  daugh- 
ter the  evening  previous.  Mr.  Abbot  is  in  a 
whirl  of  indignation  over  the  letter,  which  he 
considers  an  insult,  but  is  all  aflame  with  curi- 
osity about  the  doctor  and  the  young  lady.  He 
has  been  preparing  to  return  to  Boston  this  very 
week,  but  is  now  determined  to  wait  until  he  can 
see  these  mysterious  people,  who  are  so  oddly 
mixed  up  in  his  son's  afi'airs.  It  is  with  some 
difiiculty  that  the  major  prevails  upon  him  not 
to  write  to  Miss  "Winthrop,  and  overwhelm  her 
with  reproaches.  That  letter  must  be  answered 
only  by  the  man  to  whom  it  was  written,  ssijs 
Abbot,  and  it  is  evident  that  he  does  not  mean  to 
be  precipitate.  lie  has  much  to  think  of,  and 
so  drives  back  to  Willard's  and  betakes  himself 
to  his  room,  where  his  father  awaits  him,  and 
where  they  are  speedily  joined  by  an  ofiicial  of 
the  secret  service,  who  has  a  host  of  singular 
questions  to  ask  about  HoUins.  Some  of  them 
have  a  tendency  to  make  the  young  major  won- 
der if  he  really  has  been  the  possessor  of  eyes 
and  ears,  or  powers  of  discernment,  during  the 
past  winter.     Then  come  some  inquiries  about 


A  WAR-TIME   WOOING.  115 

Rix.  Abbot  is  forced  to  confess  that  he  knows 
nothing  of  his  antecedents,  and  that  he  was  made 
quartermaster-sergeant  at  Hollins's  request,  at  a 
time  when  nobody  had  a  very  adequate  idea  of 
what  his  duties  might  be. 

"Who  had  charge  of  the  distribution  of  the 
regimental  mail  all  winter  and  spring  ?"  asks  the 
secret-service  man,  after  looking  over  some  mem- 
oranda. 

"The  quartermaster,  ordinarily.  The  mail- 
bag  was  carried  to  and  from  the  railway  about 
thrice  a  week,  while  we  were  at  Edward's  Ferry 
in  the  fall.  Rix  looked  after  it  then,  and  when 
we  came  down  in  front  of  Washington  the  mat- 
ter still  remained  in  his  hands.  There  was  never 
any  complaint,  that  I  can  remember." 

"  Did  any  of  your  officers  besides  Mr.  Holhns 
have  civilian  dress  or  disguise  of  any  kind  ?" 

"I  did  not  know  that  he  did — much  less  any 
,of  the  others." 

"  He  wore  his  uniform  coming  to  the  city,  but 
would  soon  turn  out  in  ^cits,'  and  in  that  way 
avoided  all  question  from  patrols.  As  he  gam- 
bled and  drank  a  good  deal  then,  we  thought, 
perhaps,  it  was  a  rule  in  the  regiment  that  offi- 
cers must  not  wear  their  uniforms  when  on  a 


116  A  WAR-TIME  WOOING. 

lark  of  any  kind ;  but  he  was  always  alone,  and 
seemed  to  have  no  associates  among  the  officers. 
What  use  could  he  have  had  for  false  beard  and 
wig  ?" 

"  Kone  whatever  that  I  know  of." 

"  He  bought  them  here,  as  we  know,  and,  pre- 
sumably, took  them  down  to  camp  with  him. 
If  he  has  deserted,  he  is  probably  masquerading 
in  that  rig  now.  I  tell  you  this  knowing  you 
will  say  nothing  of  it.  Major  Abbot,  and  because 
I  feel  that  you  have  had  no  idea  of  the  real 
character  of  this  man,  and  it  is  time  you  had." 

Abbot  bows  silently.  If  the  detective  only 
knew  what  was  going  on  at  home,  how  much  the 
more  would  he  deem  the  missing  quartermaster 
a  suspicious  character. 

Then  there  comes  a  knock  at  the  door,  and, 
opening  it.  Major  Abbot  finds  himself  face  to  face 
with  the  nurse  whom  he  had  seen  the  previous 
afternoon  in  Doctor  Warren's  room.  She  looks 
up  into  his  face  with  a  smile  that  betokens  a  new 
and  lively  interest. 

"  The  doctor  left  us  but  a  few  minutes  ago," 
she  says,  "and  he  tells  me  my  patient  is  on 
the  mend.  Of  course,  we  have  said  nothing  to 
him  as  yet  about  Miss  Bessie's  fainting  yesterday, 


A   WAR-TIME   WOOING.  117 

but — I  thought  you  might  be  anxious  to  know 
how  they  are." 

"I  am  indeed,"  says  Abbot,  cordially,  '^  and 
thank  you  for  coming.  How  is  Miss  Warren  to- 
day?" 

"  She  keeps  her  room,  as  is  natural  after  one 
has  been  so  agitated,  and,  of  course,  she  does  not 
like  to  speak  of  the  matter,  and  has  forbidden  my 
telling  the  doctor — her  father,  I  mean.  But  he 
will  be  sitting  up  to-morrow,  probably,  and — I 
thought  you  might  like  to  see  them.  He  is  sleep- 
ing quietly  now." 

"Yes,  I  want  very  much  to  see  him,  as  soon 
as  he  is  well  enough  to  talk,  and,  if  the  young 
lady  should  be  well  enough  to  come  out  into  the 
parlor  this  afternoon  or  take  the  air  on  the  piaz- 
za, will  you  let  me  know  ?" 

The  nurse's  smiles  of  assent  are  beaming. 
Whether  she,  too,  has  seen  that  photograph  Ab- 
bot cannot  tell.  That  she  has  had  the  feminine 
keenness  of  vision  in  sighting  a  possible  romance 
is  beyond  question.  The  secret-service  official  is 
at  Abbot's  side  as  he  turns  back  from  the  door, 

"  I  shall  see  you  again,  perhaps  to-morrow," 
he  says ;  ''  meantime  there  is  a  good  deal  for  us  to 
do,"  and  before  the  nurse  has  reached  the  sick 


lis  A  WAPw-TIME   WOOING. 

man's  door,  she  is  politely  accosted  by  the  same 
urbane  young  man,  and  is  by  no  means  sorry  to 
stop  and  talk  with  somebody  about  her  sad-faced 
old  patient  and  his  wonderfully  pretty  daughter. 
It  was  Abbot's  ^^urpose  to  devote  a  little  time 
that  afternoon  to  answering  the  letter  received 
but  yesterday  from  Miss  Winthrop.  It  needs  no 
telling — the  fact  that  there  had  never  been  a 
love-affair  in  their  engagement ;  and  no  one  can 
greatly  blame  a  woman  who  is  dissatisfied  with 
a  loveless  match.  Yiva  Winthrop  was  not  so 
unattractive  as  to  be  destitute  of  all  possibility 
of  winning  adorers.  Indeed,  there  was  strong 
ground  for  believing  that  she  fully  realized  the 
bliss  of  having  at  least  one  man's  entire  devo- 
tion. Whatsoever  evil  traits  may  have  cropped 
out  in  Mr.  IloUins's  army  career,  she  had  seen 
nothing  of  them,  and  knew  only  his  thoughtful 
and  lover-hke  attentions  while  they  were  abroad, 
and  his  assiduous  wooiug  on  his  return.  Paul 
Abbot  had  never  asked  for  her  love — indeed,  he 
had  hardly  mentioned  the  word  as  incidental 
to  their  engagement.  Nevertheless,  yielding  to 
what  she  had  long  been  taught  to  consider  her 
fate,  she  had  accepted  the  family  arrangement — 
and  him — and  was  the  subject  of  incessant  and 


A  WAE-TIME   WOOING.  119 

enthusiastic  congratulation.  Abbot's  gallant  ser- 
vice and  distinguished  character  as  an  officer  had 
won  the  hearty  admiration  of  all  the  circle  in 
which  she  lived  and  moved  and  had  her  being, 
and  she  was  thought  an  enviable  girl  to  have 
won  the  love  of  so  brave  and  so  promising  a 
man.  .  A  little  more  reserved  and  cold  than  ever 
had  Miss  Winthrop  become,  and  the  smile  with 
which  she  thanked  these  many  well-wishers  was 
something  wintry  and  weary  in  the  last  degree. 
If  he  had  only  loved  her,  there  might  have 
bloomed  in  her  heart  an  answering  passion  that 
would  have  filled  her  nature,  and  made  her 
proudly  happy  in  her  choice.  But  that  he  had 
never  had  for  her  anything  more  than  a  brother- 
and-sister,  boy-and-girl  sort  of  affection — a  kind, 
careless,  yet  courteous  tenderness — was  some- 
thing she  had  to  tell  herself  time  and  again,  and 
to  hear  as  well  from  the  letters  of  a  man  whose 
letters  she  should  have  forbidden. 

Even  in  his  astonishment  at  the  charge  brought 
against  him,  and  in  his  indignation  at  the  accusa- 
tion of  deceit,  Paul  Abbot  cannot  but  feel  that 
allowances  must  be  made  for  Yiva  Winthrop. 
He  meant  to  marry  her,  to  be  a  loyal  and  affec- 
tionate husband ;  but  he  had  not  loved  her  as 


120  A   WAK-TIME   WOOING. 

women  love  to  be  loved,  and  she  was  conscious 
of  the  lacking  chord.  That  she  had  been  de- 
ceived and  swindled,  too,  by  some  shameless 
scoundrel,  and  made  to  believe  in  her  fiance's 
guilt,  was  another  thing  that  was  plain  to  him. 
She  had  probably  been  told  some  very  strong 
story  of  his  interest  in  this  other  girl.  Yer}^ 
probably,  too,  HoUins  was  the  informer  and,  pre- 
sumably, the  designer  of  the  plot.  Who  can  tell 
how  deep  and  damnable  it  was,  since  it  had  been 
carried  so  far  as  to  induce  the  AYarrens  to  believe 
that  he  was  the  writer  of  scores  of  letters  from 
the  front  ?  Then  again,  ever  since  he  had  raised 
that  fainting  girl  in  his  arms,  especially  ever 
since  the  moment  when  her  lovely  eyes  were 
Hfted  to  his  face  and  her  sweet  lips  murmured 
his  name,  Paul  Abbot  has  been  conscious  of  a 
longing  to  see  her  again.  Xot  an  instant  has  he 
been  able  to  forget  her  face,  her  beauty,  her 
soft  touch ;  the  wave  of  color  that  rushed  to  her 
broAV  as  he  met  her  at  her  father's  door  when  the 
nurse  brought  her,  still  trembling,  back  to  the  old 
man's  bedside.  He  had  murmured  some  hardly 
articulate  words,  some  promise  of  coming  to  in- 
quire for  her  on  the  morrow,  and  bowed  his 
adieu.    But  now — now,  he  feels  that  not  only 


A   WAK-TIME   WOOING.  121 

Genevieve,  but  that  Bessie  AYarren,  too,  has  been 
made  a  victim  of  this  scoundrers  plottings,  and, 
though  longing  to  see  her  and  hear  her  speak 
again,  he  knows  not  what  to  say.  It  Avas  hard 
enough  to  have  to  deny  himself  to  the  poor  old 
doctor  when  he  came  out  to  the  Monocacy. 
Could  he  look  in  her  face  and  tell  her  it  was  all 
a  fraud ;  that  some  one  had  stolen  and  sent  her 
his  picture  %  some  one  had  stolen  and  used  his 
name,  and,  whatsoever  were  the  letters,  all  were 
forgeries  %  No !  He  must  wait  and  see  Doctor 
Warren,  and  let  her  think  him  come  back  to  life 
— let  her  think  they  were  his  letters — rather  than 
face  her,  and  say  it  was  all  a  lie.  Yet  he  longs 
to  see  her  once  again. 

But  to  Yiva  he  must  write  without  further  de- 
lay. Her  letter  unquestionably  frees  him,  and 
does  it  with  a  brusqueness  that  might  excuse  a 
man  for  accepting  the  situation  without  a  word. 
If  the  engagement  has  ever  been  irksome  to  him 
it  is  now  at  an  end,  and  he  is  in  no  Avise  respon- 
sible. Giving  him  no  opportunity  for  denial,  she 
has  accused  him  of  breach  of  faith  and  cast 
him  off.  Wounded  pride,  did  he  love  her  deep- 
ly, might  now  impel  him  to  be  silent.  A  sense 
of  indignity  and  wrong  might  drive  many  a  man 


122  A  WAE-TIME    WOOING. 

to  turn  away  at  such  a  juncture,  and  leave  to  the 
future  the  unravelling  of  the  plot.  There  are  mo- 
ments, it  must  be  confessed,  when  Major  Abbot 
is  so  stung  by  the  letter  that  he  is  half  disposed 
to  take  it  as  final,  and  let  her  bear  the  conse- 
quences of  discovery  of  the  fraud ;  but  they  are 
quickly  followed  by  others  in  which  he  is  heart- 
ily ashamed  of  himself  for  such  a  thought.  Eight 
or  wrong,  Yiva  Winthrop  is  a  woman  who  has 
given  her  life  into  his  hands ;  a  woman  who  has 
been  reared  in  every  luxury  only  to  be  denied 
the  one  luxury  a  woman  holds  most  precious  of 
all.  He  has  not  been  a  devoted  lover  any  more 
than  he  has  been  disloyal ;  and  now  that  trouble 
has  come  to  her,  and  she  is  deceived,  perhaps  en- 
dangered. Major  Abbot  quietly  decides  that  the 
only  obvious  course  for  a  gentleman  to  follow  is 
to  crush  his  pride  under  foot  and  to  act  and  think 
for  her.  And  this,  after  several  attempts,  is  what 
he  finally  writes  her  ; 

"  Your  letter  came  last  night,  dear  Yiva,  and  I  have  thought 
long  over  it  before  answering.  It  is  all  my  fault  that  this 
constraint  has  hung  over  your  letters.  I  have  seen  it  for 
months,  and  yet  made  no  effort  until  lately  to  have  it  ex- 
plained. Long  ago,  had  I  done  so,  you  would  probably  have 
given  me  the  reason,  and  I  could  have  assured  you  of  the  er- 


A  WAR-TTME   WOOING.  123 

ror  into  wliicli  you  were  led.  Now  it  seems  that  you  and  I 
are  not  the  only  ones  involved. 

"Neither  to  Miss  AYarren  nor  any  other  girl  have  I  written 
since  our  engagement;  but  her  father  has  been  to  see  me,  and 
tell  me  that  many  letters  purporting  to  come  from  me  have 
been  received,  and  I  have  hardly  time  to  recover  from  that 
surprise  when  your  indignant  charge  is  added.  Taken  to- 
gether, the  two  point  very  strongly  to  a  piece  of  villainy. 
You  could  never  have  believed  this  of  me,  Viva,  without 
proofs;  and  I  feel  sure  that  letters  must  have  been  sent  to 
you.  Now  that  we  are  pushing  every  effort  to  detect  and 
punish  the  villain  who  has  wrought  this,  and  I  fear  other 
wrongs,  such  letters  will  be  most  important  evidence,  and  I 
conjure  you  to  send  them  to  me  by  express  at  once.  Father 
would  come  for  them,  but  I  need  him  here.  I  do  not  seek  to 
inquire  into  your  personal  correspondence,  Viva,  but  letters 
that  bear  upon  this  matter  are  of  vital  weight. 

"  As  to  my  dismissal,  may  I  not  ask  you  to  reconsider  your 
words,  and,  in  the  light  of  my  assurance  that  I  am  innocent 
of  the  sin  with  which  you  have  charged  me,  permit  me  to  sign 
myself,  as  ever,  lovingly  and  faithfully  yours?         Paul." 

It  is  no  easy  letter  to  write.  He  wants  to 
be  calm  and  just,  and  that  makes  it  sound  cold 
and  utterly  unimpassioned.  Beyond  doubt  she 
would  be  far  happier  with  a  fury  of  reproaches, 
cutting  sarcasm,  and  page  after  page  of  indig- 
nant denial.  He  also  wants  to  be  tender  when 
he  thinks  of  what  he  has  not  had  to  lavish  on 
her  in  the  past,  and  that  prompts  him  to  the  lit- 


124  A  WAR-TIME   WOOING. 

tie  touch  of  sentiment  at  the  close — a  touch  that 
is  perhaps  unwarranted  by  the  facts  in  the  case. 
There  is  a  third  matter,  one  that  he  does  not 
want  to  mention  at  all,  a  name  he  hates  to  put 
on  any  page  addressed  to  her ;  but  he  knows  that 
it  is  due  her  she  should  be  told  the  truth,  and  at 
last,  just  as  sunset  is  coming,  he  adds  a  postscript : 

"  I  feel  that  I  must  tell  you  that  IMr.  Hollins  has  been  miss- 
ing ever  since  Antietam,  under  circumstances  that  cloud  his 
name  with  grave  suspicion.  It  is  no  longer  concealed  that 
his  conduct  and  character  have  left  him  practically  friendless 
in  the  regiment,  and  that  he  could  not  long  have  retained  his 
position.  He  is  not  worthy  the  friendship  you  felt  for  him, 
Viva;  of  that  I  am  certain." 

He  is  still  pondering  over  this  when  his  father 
comes  in  for  a  word  or  two. 

"  I  am  going  over  to  call  at  Doctor  Warren's 
room  and  ask  how  he  is.  Possibly  he  may  be 
able  to  see  me.     Have  you  written  to — " 

And  he  stops.  He  does  not  feel  like  saying 
"  Yiva  "  to  or  of  the  girl  who  has  so  misjudged 
his  boy. 

Abbot  holds  up  the  letter  and  its  addressed 
envelope. 

"  Yes,  and  it  must  go  at  once  or  miss  the  mail." 

"I'll  post  it  for  you,  then,  as  I  have  to  go  to 


A  WAE-TIME   WOOING.  125 

the  office  a  moment,"  is  the  answer,  and  the  elder 
stands  looking  at  his  son,  while  the  latter  quickly 
scans  the  last  page,  then  folds  and  encloses  it. 
Paul  smiles  into  his  father's  eyes  as  he  hands  it, 
and  the  letter-bearer  goes  briskly  away. 

His  footsteps  have  hardly  become  inaudible 
when  there  is  a  tap  at  the  door,  and  behold !  the 
nurse. 

"  You  told  me  you  would  like  to  know  when 
Miss  "Warren  came  out,  major.  She  is  on  the  ve- 
randa now." 


YIII. 

Throwing  over  his  shoulders  the  cape  of  his 
army  overcoat,  Major  Abbot  hastens  from  his 
room  in  the  direction  of  the  Uttle  gallery  or  ve- 
randa at  the  side  of  the  house.  Evening  is  just 
approaching,  and  the  lights  are  beginning  to 
twinkle  on  the  broad  avenue  below.  He  has 
not  yet  had  time  to  determine  upon  his  course 
of  conduct.  If,  as  he  begins  to  suspect,  it  is 
Bessie  Warren  w^ho  received  all  those  guileful 
letters,  his  will  be  a  most  difficult  part  to  play, 
lie  longs  to  speak  with  her  as  well  as  to  see  her, 
but  at  this  moment  he  knows  not  what  may  be 
expected  of  him,  and,  rather  than  have  to  inflict 
mortification  or  pain  upon  so  sweet  a  girl,  he  is 
almost  ready  to  wish  that  it  had  been  his  privi- 
lege to  write  to  her.  The  fact  that  her  father 
was  so  overcome  at  his  denial,  the  fact  that  she 
fainted  at  sight  of  him,  the  fact  that  her  first 
words  on  reviving  were  to  the  effect  that  her 
father  had  told  her  Paul  Abbot  was  dead — all 


A  WAR-TIME   WOOING.  127 

seemed  to  point  to  the  conclusion  that  she  had 
received  love-letters,  and  that  she  had  become 
deeply  interested  in  her  unseen  correspondent. 
It  would  be  no  difficult  matter  to  act  the  lover, 
and  endorse  anything  these  letters  might  have 
said  to  such  a  girl,  thinks  Abbot,  as  he  hastens 
along  the  carpeted  corridor,  but  then  there  is  his 
letter  to  Yiva ;  there  is  the  fact  that  he  has  vir- 
tually declined  to  release  her.  It  is  this  thought 
that  suddenly  "gives  him  pause,"  and,  at  the 
very  moment  that  he  comes  to  the  doorway  lead- 
ing to  the  veranda,  causes  him  to  stop  short  and 
reflect. 

There  is  a  little  sitting-room  opening  off  this 
hallway.  One  or  two  couples  are  chatting  and 
gossiping  therein,  but  Abbot  steps  past  them  to 
the  window  and  gazes  out.  As  he  expected, 
there  is  a  view  of  one  end  of  the  veranda,  and 
there  she  stands,  looking  far  out  into  the  gath- 
ering]: nio:ht. 

A  sweeter,  lovelier  face  one  seldom  sees;  so 
delicate  and  refined  in  every  feature,  so  gentle 
and  trusting  in  its  expression.  Her  deep  mourn- 
ing seems  only  to  enhance  her  fragile  beaut3^  and 
to  render  more  observable  the  grace  of  her  slen- 
der form.    She  leans  against  the  iron  treUis-work, 


128  A  WAK-TIME   WOOING. 

and  one  slim  ^yhite  hand  sweeps  back  the  sunny 
hair  that  is  playing  about  her  temple.  Her 
thoughts  are  not  so  ver}^  far  away.  He  is  stand- 
ins'  in  the  shadow  of  a  curtained  niche  in  a  room 
whose  light  comes  mainly  from  the  flickering 
coal-fire  in  the  grate,  for  the  October  evening  is 
chill.  She  stands  where  the  light  from  the  big 
lamps  at  the  corner  is  sufficient  to  plainly  show 
her  every  look  and  gesture.  Abbot  marks  that 
twice  or  thrice,  as  footsteps  are  heard  in  the  hall, 
she  glances  quickly  towards  the  doorway ;  then 
that  a  shade  of  disappointment  gathers  on  her 
brow  as  no  one  comes.  Then,  once  or  twice, 
timidly  and  furtively,  she  casts  shy,  quick  glan- 
ces aloft  and  towards  the  front  of  the  building. 
It  requires  little  calculation  to  tell  Major  Abbot 
that  those  glances  are  towards  the  window  of 
his  room.  Then  can  it  be  that  she  is  there,  wait- 
ing him,  impatient  of  his  coming  ? 

Whether  or  no,  this  is  no  place  for  him.  He 
has  no  business  here  spying  upon  her.  He  has 
had  his  look ;  has  seen  again  the  sweet  face  that 
so  fascinated  him.  Kow,  though  he  could  gaze 
indefinitely,  he  feels  that  he  should  either  go  forth 
and  meet  her  openly  or,  perhaps  better,  retire  and 
avoid  her  entirelv.     Before  he  can  summon  cour- 


A  WAR-TIME    WOOING.  129 

age  to  go  he  turns  for  one  last  look,  and  his  course 
is  decided  for  him. 

A  footstep,  somewhat  slow,  either  from  a  dis- 
position to  saunter  on  the  part  of  the  promenader 
or  possible  languor  and  weakness,  is  coming  along 
the  hallway.  She  hears  it,  too,  and  he  sees  how 
her  white  hands  clasp  the  rail  of  the  balcony,  and 
how  she  turns  her  bonnie  head  to  listen,  l^earer 
it  comes ;  he  cannot  see  who  approaches,  because 
that  would  involve  his  stepping  back  and  losing 
sight  of  her;  and  as  it  nears  the  doorway  he 
marks  her  eager,  tremulous  pose,  and  can  almost 
see  the  beating  of  her  heart.  She  has  not  turned 
fully  towards  the  hall — just  partially,  as  though  a 
sidelong  glance  were  all  she  dared  give  even  in 
her  joyous  eagerness.  Then  a  form  suddenly 
darkens  the  portal,  and  just  as  suddenly  a  shad- 
ow of  keen  disappointment  clouds  her  face.  She 
turns  abruptly,  and  once  more  gazes  wistfully 
down  the  street. 

The  next  thing  Abbot  sees  is  that  the  man  is  at 
her  side ;  that  he  has  accosted  her ;  that  she  is 
startled  and  annoyed ;  and  that  although  in  to- 
tally different  garb,  her  caller  is  no  less  a  person 
than  the  secret-service  official  Avho  visited  him 
that  morning.  What  on  earth  can  that  mean  ? 
9 


130  A   WAR-TIME   WOOING. 

Whatever  the  conversation,  it  is  very  brief. 
Obedient  to  some  suggestion  or  request,  though 
not  without  one  more  quick  glance  at  his  win- 
dow, Abbot  sees  her  turn  and  enter  the  house. 
Quickly  she  passes  the  doorway  and  speeds  along 
the  hall.  Eegardless  of  the  opinions  and  prob- 
able remarks  of  the  gossipers  in  the  sitting-room, 
Major  Abbot  hastens  to  the  entrance  and  gazes 
after  her  until  the  graceful  form  is  out  of  sight. 
Then  he  turns  and  confronts  the  sauntering  de- 
tective— 

"^'  I  did  not  know  you  knew  Miss  Warren,"  he 
says. 

"  I  don't,"  is  the  answer.  "  Neither  do  you, 
do  you  ?" 

''  Well,  we  never  met  before  yesterday,  but — " 

''  You  never  wrote  to  her,  did  you,  or  to  her 
father  ?" 

"  Never,  and  yet  I  think  there  is  a  matter  con- 
nected with  it  all  that  will  require  explanation." 

"  So  do  I.  One  of  the  worst  points  against 
the  old  gentleman  is  that  very  bad  break  he 
made  in  claiming  that  you  had  been  a  constant 
correspondent  of  his  and  of  his  daughter's." 

"  One  of  the  worst !  Why,  what  is  he  ac- 
cused of  f 


A  WAE-TIME   WOOING.  131 

"  Being  a  rebel  spy — not  to  put  too  fine  a  point 
upon  it." 

Abbot  stands  aghast  a  moment. 

"  "Why,  man,  it's  simply  impossible !  I  tell  you, 
you're  all  wrong." 

"  Wish  you'd  tell  my  chief  that,"  answers  the 
man,  impassively.  "  I  don't  like  the  thing  a  par- 
ticle. They've  got  points  up  at  the  office  that  I 
know  nothing  about,  and,  probably,  have  more 
yet,  now ;  for  the  package  of  papers  was  found 
upon  him  just  as  described  from  Frederick." 

"  What  papers  ?" 

"  Don't  know.  They've  taken  them  up  to  the 
office.  That's  what  makes  the  case  rather  weak 
in  my  eyes ;  no  man  would  carry  a  packet  of 
implicating  papers  in  the  pocket  of  his  overcoat 
all  this  time.  Such  a  package  v»^as  handed  to 
him  as  he  left  the  tavern  there  by  the  landlord's 
wife,  and  she  got  it  from  the  rebel  spy  who  es- 
caped back  across  the  Potomac  the  next  morn- 
ing. He's  the  man  your  Colonel  Putnam  so 
nearly  captured.  Doctor  Warren  broke  down 
on  the  back  trip,  it  seems,  and  was  delirious  here 
for  some  days ;  but  even  then  I  should  think  he 
would  hardly  have  kept  these  papers  in  an  over- 
coat pocket,  unless  they  were  totally  forgotten. 


132  A   WAR-TIME   WOOING. 

and  that  would  look  vastly  like  innocence  of 
their  contents,  which  is  what  he  claimed." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  he  knows  it  ?  Has  he 
been  accused  ?"  asks  Abbot. 

"  Certainly.  That's  what  I  came  down  here 
for;  he  wanted  his  daughter.  He  is  perfectly 
rational  and  on  the  mend  now,  and  as  the  phy- 
sicians said  he  would  be  able  to  travel  in  a  day 
or  two,  it  was  decided  best  to  nail  him.  There 
are  scores  of  people  hereabouts  who'll  stand 
watching  better  than  this  old  doctor,  to  my 
thinking ;  but  we  are  hke  you  soldiers,  and  have 
our  orders." 

"  Was  my  father  up  there  when  he  was  noti- 
fied of  his  arrest,"  aslvs  Abbot. 

"No;  Mr.  Abbot  has  gone  over  to  Senator 
Wilson's.  He  was  met  by  a  messenger  while 
standing  in  the  office  a  while  ago." 

The  major  tugs  his  mustache  in  nervous  per- 
plexity a  moment.  He  needs  to  see  the  doctor. 
He  cannot  rest  satisfied  now  until  he  has  called 
upon  him,  assured  him  of  his  sympathy,  his 
faith  in  his  innocence,  and  his  desire  to  be  of 
service.  More  than  that,  he  longs  to  tell  him 
that  he  believes  it  in  his  power  to  explain  the 
whole  complication.    More  and  more  it  is  dawn- 


A   WAR-TIME   WOOING.  133 

ing  upon  him  that  he  has  had  an  arch-enemy  at 
work  in  this  missing  HoUins,  and  that  his  vil- 
lainy has  involved  them  all. 

"  Can  I  see  Dr.  Warren  ?"  he  suddenly  asks. 

"  I  don't  know.  I  am  not  directly  in  charge, 
but  I  will  ask  Hallett,  who  is  up  at  the  room 
now." 

"  Do ;  and  come  to  my  room  and  let  me  know 
as  soon  as  you  can." 

In  less  than  five  minutes  the  officer  is  down 
at  his  door. 

"I  declare  I  wish  you  irould  come  up.  It 
seems  more  than  ever  to  me  that  there's  a  blun- 
der somewhere.  The  old  man  takes  it  mighty 
hard  that  he  should  be  looked  upon  as  a  spy  by 
the  government  he  has  suffered  so  much  for. 
He  says  his  only  son  was  killed;  captain  in  a 
Xew  York  regiment." 

"  Yes,  and  I  beUeve  it.  I  knew  him  at  col- 
lege." 

"  "WeU,  if  that  don't  beat  all !  And  now  that 
pretty  girl  is  all  he  has  left,  and  she's  breaking 
her  heart  because  she  don't  know  how  to  com- 
fort him." 

"  Come  on,"  says  Abbot.     ^- 1  know  the  way." 

And,   for  a  lame  man,  he  manages  to  make 


134:  A   WAE-TIME   WOOING. 

marvellous  time  through  the  hallway  and  up 
that  little  flight  of  stairs.  The  room  door  is 
open  as  before.  A  man  is  pacing  restlessly  up 
and  down  the  hall.  There  is  a  sound  of  sobbing 
from  within,  and,  never  stopping  to  knock,  Paul 
Abbot  throws  off  his  cloak  and  enters. 

She  is  bending  over  the  bedside,  mingling  en- 
treaty and  soothing  words  with  her  tears ;  striv- 
ing to  induce  her  raging  old  father  to  lay  him- 
self down  and  take  the  medicine  that  the  panic- 
stricken  nurse  is  vainly  offering.  The  doctor 
seems  to  have  but  one  thought — wrath  and  in- 
dignation that  he,  the  father  of  a  son  who  died 
so  gallantly,  should  have  been  accused  of  so  vile 
a  crime ;  he  has  but  one  desire,  to  rise  and  dress, 
and  confront  his  accusers.  If  ever  man  needed 
the  strong  arm  of  a  son  to  rest  on  at  this  mo- 
ment, it  is  poor  old  Warren.  If  ever  woman 
needed  the  aid  and  presence  of  a  gallant  lover, 
it  is  this  sweet,  half -distracted  Bessie ;  and  if 
ever  man  looked  thoroughly  fit  to  fill  all  re- 
quirements, it  is  the  self-same  young  major  of 
staff  who  comes  striding  in  and  grasping  the 
situation  with  a  soldiers  glance. 

Heaven !  How  her  eyes  fight  and  beam  at  sight 
of  him  !    How  even  through  her  tears,  the  flush 


A   WAR-TIME   WOOING.  135 

of  hope  and  joy  springs  to  her  cheek.  How 
eagerly,  trustfully,  she  turns  to  him,  as  though 
knowing  all  must  now  be  well. 

'•  Oh,  papa  !  here  is  Mr.  Abbot,"  she  exclaims, 
and  says  it  as  though  she  felt  that  nothing  more 
could  ever  be  needed. 

He  steps  between  her  and  the  staring  eyes 
of  the  old  gentleman  ;  bends  quickly  down  over 
him. 

"  Yes,  doctor.  Paul  Abbot,  whom  you  thought 
killed,"  and  he  gives  him  a  significant  glance ; 
a  glance  that  warns  him  to  say  no  word  that 
might  undeceive  her.  '*  I  have  just  had  news 
of  this  extraordinary  charge.  I've  come  to  you, 
quick  as  legs  can  carry  me,  to  tell  you  that  you 
are  to  lie  perfectly  still,  and  rest  this  burden  with 
me.  Don't  stir ;  don  t  worry ;  don't  say  one 
word.  I'm  going  straight  to  the  provost-mar- 
shal's to  tell  them  what  I  know,  and  explain 
away  this  whole  thing.  A  most  extraordinary 
piece  of  scoundrelism  is  at  the  bottom  of  it  all, 
but  I  am  beginning  to  understand  it,  fully.  Doc- 
tor, will  you  trust  me  ?  Will  you  let  me  try  and 
be  Guthrie  to  you  to-night ;  and  promise  me  to 
lie  still  here  until  I  come  back  from  the  provost- 
marshal's  ?" 


136  A   WAR-TIME   WOOING. 

''  Do,  father !"  implores  Bessie,  bending  over 
him,  too. 

There  is  a  look  of  utter  bewilderment  in  the 
doctors  haggard  face,  but  he  says  no  word.  For 
a  moment  he  gazes  from  one  to  the  other,  then 
drops  back  upon  the  pillow,  his  eyes  fixed  on 
Abbot's  face. 

"  I  am  all  unstrung,  weak  as  a  child/'  he  mur- 
murs ;  "  I  cannot  understand ;  but  do  as  you  will.'' 

There  are  voices  in  the  hall ;  the  clink  of  spurs 
and  sabre ;  and  a  cavalry  orderly  makes  his  ap- 
pearance at  the  door. 

"  I  was  to  give  this  to  Major  Abbot,  instantly," 
he  says,  saluting  and  holding  forth  an  envelope. 
Abbot  takes  and  tears  it  open.  The  message  is 
brief  enough,  but  full  of  meaning : 

"  Your  presence  necessary  here  at  once  to  ex- 
plain the  papers  found  on  Doctor  Warren.  Looks 
like  a  case  of  mistaken  identity." 

It  is  signed  by  the  young  oificer  whom  he  met 
on  the  occasion  of  his  last  visit. 

"  I  thought  so,  doctor !"  he  says,  triumphantly. 
"  They  are  shaky  already,  and  send  for  me  to 
come.  Depend  upon  it  I'll  bring  you  glad  tid- 
ings in  less  than  no  time,  and  have  an  end  to 
these  mysteries.     !N'ow  try  and  rest." 


"A  cavalry  orderly  makes  his  ajipearance  at  tlie  door.""* 


A   WAK-TLME   WOOING.  137 

Then  he  turns  to  her.  Can  he  ever  forget  the 
trust,  the  radiance,  the  restfulness  in  the  shy, 
sudden  look  she  gives  him  ?  His  heart  bounds 
Tvith  the  sight ;  his  pulse  throbs  hard  as  he  holds 
forth  his  hand,  and,  for  the  first  time,  her  soft 
warm  palm  is  clasped  in  his. 

"  Don't  worry  one  bit,  Miss  Bessie ;  we'll  have 
this  matter  straightened  out  at  once." 

Then  there  is  a  pressure  he  cannot  resist;  a 
shy,  momentary  answer  he  cannot  mistake ;  and, 
with  his  veins  all  thrilling,  Paul  Abbot  goes  forth 
upon  his  mission,  leaving  her  looking  after  him 
with  eyes  that  plainly  say,  "  There  walks  a  demi- 
god." 

At  the  office  he  is  prom43tly  ushered  into  the 
presence  of  three  or  four  men,  two  of  them  in 
uniform. 

"  Major  Abbot,  here  is  a  packet  of  letters  in  a 
lady's  hand,  addressed  to  3"ou.  They  were  found  on 
Doctor  Warren,  in  the  very  pocket  where  he  placed 
the  package  that  Avas  given  him  at  Frederick. 
Have  you  lost  such,  or  canyon  account  for  them  ?" 

"  I  can  account  for  them  readily,"  answers 
Abbot,  promptly.  "  They  are  mine,  written  by 
Miss  Warren,  and  were  stolen  from  me,  as  I  be- 
lieve ;  was  there  no  explanation  or  address  ?" 


138  A   WAR-TIME   WOOING. 

"JS'othing  but  this,"  is  the  answer,  and  the 
speaker  holds  forth  a  wrapper  inside  which  is 
Avritten  these  words  : 

"  For  your  daughter.  Euined  though  I  am, 
I  can  never  forgive  myself  for  the  fearful  wrong 
I  have  done  her.  Tell  her  it  was  all  a  lie.  He 
never  wrote,  and  she  will  never  know  the  man 
who  did." 

Abbot  stands  staring  at  the  paper,  his  hands 
clinching,  his  mouth  setting  hard.  Xo  word  is 
spoken  for  a  moment.  Then,  in  answer  to  a 
courteous  question,  he  looks  up. 

"  It  is  as  I  thought.  His  villainy  has  in- 
volved others  besides  me.  Doctor  Warren  is 
no  more  spy  than  I  am.     This  writing  is  that 

d d  scoundrel  Hollins's,  who  deserted  from 

our  regiment." 


IX. 

It  is  late  that  evening  when  Major  Abbot  re- 
turns to  Willard's.  He  has  found  time  to  write 
a  brief  note  to  the  doctor,  which  it  was  his  inten- 
tion to  send  by  the  orderly  who  bears  the  official 
order  releasing  the  AYarrens  from  surveillance. 
It  suddenly  occurs  to  him,  however,  that  she 
may  see  the  note.  If  so,  what  will  be  her  sensa- 
tions on  finding  that  the  handwriting  is  utterly 
unlike  that  in  which  all  her  letters  had  come  to 
her.  Abbot  tears  it  into  shreds,  and  contents 
himself  with  a  message,  saying  that  he  is  com- 
pelled to  see  the  adjutant-general  on  immediate 
business,  but  will  soon  be  with  them. 

It  is  true  that  the  adjutant-general  has  business 
with  Major  Abbot,  but  it  is  some  time  before 
audience  is  obtained.  There  is  still  a  whirl  of 
excitement  over  Stuart's  movements,  and  it  is 
ten  o'clock  before  the  young  officer  is  able  to  see 
his  chief.  The  general  is  courteous,  but  a  trifle 
formal  and  cold.     Staff  officers,  be  says,  are  now 


14:0  A  WAE-TIME   WOOING. 

urgently  needed,  and  he  desires  to  know  how 
soon  the  major  will  feel  able  to  resume  duty. 

"  At  once,  sir,"  is  the  answer. 

'^  But  3^ou  are  still  far  from  strong,  and —  I  do 
not  mean  office  duty  here ;  we  have  abundance 
of  material  for  that  sort  of  work." 

"  J^either  do  I,  sir.  I  mean  duty  at  the  front. 
I  can  sit  around  headquarters  in  the  field  as  com- 
fortably as  I  can  anywhere,  and,  to  the  best  of 
my  observation,  the  duty  performed  by  the  ad- 
jutant-general at  corps  or  division  headquarters 
is  not  such  as  involves  much  physical  exertion." 

The  general  smiles  benignantly  upon  the 
younger  officer,  and  with  the  air  of  a  man 
who  would  say,  "How  little  you  know  of  the 
importance  and  responsibilities  of  the  labors  to 
which  we  are  assigned;  but  you  will  soon  un- 
derstand." 

"  But  can  you  ride  yet  ?"  he  asks. 

"  I  can ;  if  a  forward  movement  is  in  contem- 
plation ;  and  every  day  will  bring  me  strength," 
answers  Abbot.  "  In  brief,  general,  if  you  have 
a  post  for  me  at  the  front  I  can  go  at  once." 

"  One  other  thing.  Have  you  any  idea  of  the 
whereabouts  of  Mr.  HoUins  of  your  old  regiment, 
or  can  you  give  us  any  idea  as  to  where  he  would 


A   WAK-TIME   WOOING.  141 

be  likely  to  go  ?  He  has  forwarded  his  resigna- 
tion, dated  Keedysville,  Maryland,  September 
18.  It  was  post-marked  Baltimore,  October 
8,  and  came  direct.  Of  course  it  cannot  be  ac- 
cepted. "What  is  needed  is  some  clew  as  to  his 
movements.  Could  he  or  would  he  have  gone 
back  to  Boston  ?  Had  he  anything  to  draw  him 
thither?" 

Abbot  reflects  a  moment.  "  I  can  form  no  idea 
where  he  has  gone,"  he  answers. 

"  It  was  proposed  to  send  an  officer  of  your 
regiment  back  to  confer  with  the  police  authori- 
ties. Major  Abbot,  and  there  are  reasons  why  I 
prefer  you  should  go.  A  few  days'  visit  at  your 
old  home  may  not  be  unacceptable,  and  you  can 
probably  render  valuable  service.  I  have  been 
told  that  there  is  reason  to  believe  that  Lieuten- 
ant HoUins  is  lurking  somewhere  around  Bos- 
ton at  this  very  minute,  and  that  is  the  first 
duty  on  which  you  are  needed.  Your  instnic- 
tions  can  be  written  later,  ^ow  can  you  go  in 
the  morning  1" 

There  is  a  moment's  silence.  This  is  not  the 
duty  which  Major  Abbot  expected,  nor  is  it  at  all 
what  he  desires.  He  wonders  if  his  father  has 
not  been  in  collusion  with  the  senator,  and,  be- 


142  A  WAR-TIME   WOOING. 

tween  the  two,  if  some  pretext  has  not  been  de- 
vised to  get  him  home  for  a  few  days.  It  looks 
vastly  that  way. 

"I  confess  that  my  hopes  were  in  the  oppo- 
site direction,  general.  I  had  visions  of  immedi- 
ate employment  at  the  front,  when  you  spoke." 

The  bureau  official  is  evidently  pleased.  He 
likes  the  timber  the  younger  soldier  is  made  of, 
and  his  grim,  care-worn  face  relaxes. 

'^  Major  Abbot,  you  shall  have  your  wish,  and, 
depend  upon  me,  the  moment  there  is  prospect 
of  a  forward  move  you  shall  join  a  division  at 
the  front.  Your  old  colonel  will  have  one  this 
very  vreek  if  it  can  be  managed  here,  and  he  will 
be  glad  of  your  services ;  but  I  tell  you,  between 
ourselves,  that  I  do  not  believe  ]\IcClellan  can  be 
made  to  budge  an  inch  from  where  he  stands  un- 
til positive  orders  are  given  from  here.  You  go 
— not  on  leave,  but  on  duty — for  a  week,  and  then 
we'll  have  work  for  you  in  the  field.  I  have 
promised  it." 

Then  the  bewildered  3'oung  major  is  notified 
that  his  father  is  waiting  for  him  at  the  senator's, 
and  thither  he  drives,  half  determined  to  upbraid 
them  both ;  but  the  delight  in  the  old  gentle- 
man's face  is  too  much  for  him.     It  is  nearly 


A  WAE-TIME    WOOING.  143 

eleven  when  they  reach  Willard's,  and,  before  he 
will  consent  to  pack  his  soldier  kit,  Paul  Abbot 
goes  at  once  to  the  Warrens'  room,  and  his  father 
follows. 

The  secret-service  man  has  gone.  The  physi- 
cian is  there  and  the  nurse,  both  conversing  vrith 
their  patient,  when  the  two  gentlemen  appear. 
Major  Abbot  presents  his  father  and  looks  around 
the  room  somewhat  disappointedly.  Despite  his 
excitement  of  the  day,  and  possibly  because  of 
it,  Doctor  Warren  seems  in  higher  spirits  and 
better  condition  than  Abbot  has  imagined  it  pos- 
sible for  him  to  be.  The  two  old  gentlemen 
shake  hands,  and  Mr.  Abbot  speedily  seats  him- 
self by  the  side  of  the  invalid,  and  frees  himself 
of  his  impressions  as  to  the  extraordinary^  charges 
that  had  been  preferred,  and  his  satisfaction  at 
their  speedy  refutation.  The  local  physician,  in 
low  tones,  is  assuring  Major  Abbot  that  a  day  or 
two  will  restore  their  patient  to  strength  suf- 
ficient to  journey  homewards,  and  that  he  be- 
heves  the  "  set  back  "  of  the  early  evening  will 
be  of  no  avail  if  he  can  get  liim  to  sleep  by  mid-, 
night.  Abbot  hastily  explains  that  he  leaves  at 
daybreak  for  Boston,  and  had  only  come  in  ful- 
filment of  a  promise.     Then  he  accosts  his  father. 


144  A  WAE-TIME   WOOING. 

'^  I  know  we  have  both  a  great  deal  to  say  to 
Doctor  Warren,  father,  hut  it  is  a  pleasure  only 
to  be  deferred.  We  must  say  good-niglit,  so  that 
he  can  sleep,  and  will  meet  in  KeAv  York  next 
week." 

Doctor  Warren  looks  up  inquiringl}^  He  is 
far  from  willing  to  let  them  go,  but  the  physician 
interposes.  They  say  their  adieux  and  still  Ab- 
bot hesitates ;  his  eyes  wander  to  the  door  which 
communicates  with  Bessie's  room,  and,  as  though 
in  answer,  it  opens  and  she  softly  enters. 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  have  come,"  he  says,  in  low, 
eager  tone.  "  Let  me  present  my  father,"  and 
the  old  gentleman  bows  with  courtly  grace  and 
comes  forward  to  take  her  hand.  She  is  a  lovely 
picture  to  look  at,  with  the  sweet,  shy  conscious- 
ness in  her  face.  The  very  gaze  in  Abbot's  eyes 
has  sent  the  color  to  her  brows,  and  he  holds  her 
hand  until  he  has  to  transfer  it  to  his  fathers  out- 
stretched palm. 

"  The  doctor  tells  us  we  must  not  stay.  Miss 
Bessie,"  he  continues,  "  but  I  could  not  go  with- 
out a  word.  I  am  ordered  to  Boston  by  first 
train  in  the  morning,  but  shall  see  you — may 
I  not— in  I^ew  York  ?" 

Brave  as  she  is,  it  comes  too  suddenly — this 


A   WAE-TIME   WOOING.  145 

news  that  she  must  part  with  her  knight  just  as 
he  has  done  her  such  loyal  service,  and  before 
she  has  even  thanked  him  by  look  or  word.  All 
the  radiance,  all  the  bright  color  fades  in  an  in- 
stant, and  Paul  Abbot  cannot  but  see  it  and  di- 
vine, in  part  at  least,  the  reason.  He  has  in  his 
pocket  letters  from  her  own  fair  hand,  that  he 
knows  were  written  for  him,  and  yet  that  he  has 
no  right  to  see.  He  reads  in  her  lovely  eyes  a 
trust  in  him,  a  pain  at  this  sudden  parting,  that 
he  thrills  in  reahzing,  3-et  should  steel  his  heart 
against  or  be  no  loyal  man.  But  he  cannot  go 
without  a  word  from  her,  and  it  is  a  moment  be- 
fore she  can  speak : 

"Is — is  it  not  very  sudden?  I  shall  never 
thank  you  enough  for  what  you  have  done  for 
father — for  tcs,  this  evening.  What  would  w^e 
have  done  without  you  ?" 

"  That  is  nothing.  There  is  no  time  now — but 
next  week — Xew  York — I  may  see  you  there, 
may  I  not  ?" 

May  he  not  ?  What  man  can  look  in  her  eyes 
and  ask  less  ?  He  holds  her  hand  in  close  press- 
ure one  instant  and  hastens  from  the  room. 

Forty-eight  hours  later  he  is  in  the  presence 
10 


14:6  A  WAK-TIME    WOOING. 

of  the  woman  who  had  promised  to  be  his  wife. 
The  evening  has  seemed  somewhat  long.  She 
was  out  when  he  called  at  an  earlier  hour,  but 
was  to  be  found  at  a  dinner-party  in  the  neigh- 
borhood. Major  Abbot  feels  indis^Dosed  to  meet 
her  in  presence  of  "  society,"  and  leaves  word  that 
he  will  return  at  ten  o'clock.  He  finds  her  ptill 
absent  and  has  to  wait.  Mr.  AYinthrop  is  at  his 
club ;  Mrs.  "\Yinthrop  has  begged  to  be  excused — 
she  had  retired  early  with  a  severe  headache. 
She  does  not  want  to  see  me,  thinks  Abbot,  and 
that  looks  as  though  Yiva  were  obdurate.  It  is 
a  matter  that  has  served  to  lose  its  potency  for 
ill,  and  the  major  is  angered  at  himself  because 
of  a  thrill  of  hope ;  because  of  the  thought  of  an- 
other face  that  will  intrude.  It  is  nearly  eleven 
o'clock  when  he  hears  the  rumble  of  carriage 
wheels  at  the  door.  He  steps  to  the  front  win- 
dow and  looks  out  upon  the  pavement.  Yes, 
there  is  the  old  famil}^  carriage  drawn  up  in 
front  in  the  full  glare  of  the  gas  lamp.  The  foot- 
man is  opening  its  door  and  Yiva  Winthrop  steps 
quickly  forth,  glances  up  and  down  the  street  as 
though  expectant  of  some  one's  coming,  and  turns 
quickly  to  speak  to  some  one  in  the  carriage. 
Abbot  recognizes  the  face  at  the  open  window 


A   WAE-TEME   WOOIXG.  147 

as  that  of  an  old  family  friend  nodding  good- 
night. The  footman  still  stands,  but  Yiva  speaks 
to  him ;  he  touches  his  hat  respectfully,  but  in 
some  surprise,  and  then  springs  to  his  perch ;  the 
t\yo  ladies  nod  and  exchange  cordial  good-nights 
again,  and  away  goes  the  carriage,  leaving  Miss 
"VVinthrop  standing  on  the  sidewalk,  where  she  is 
still  searchingly  looking  up  and  down  and  across 
the  street.  As  though  in  answer  there  comes 
springing  through  the  dim  light  the  huUdng, 
slouching,  round-shouldered  figure  of  a  big  man. 
He  is  across  the  street  and  at  her  side  in  a  few 
vigorous  leaps,  and  away  as  quick  as  he  came. 
IS'o  word  has  been  interchanged,  no  sign  on  his 
part.  He  has  handed  her  a  small  white  parcel. 
She  has  placed  in  his  hand  a  dark  roll  of  some- 
thing that  he  eagerly  seizes  and  makes  off  with. 
It  all  happens  before  Abbot  has  time  to  realize 
what  is  going  on,  then  she  scurries  up  the  stone 
steps  and  rings  the  bell.  His  first  impulse  is  to  go 
and  open  the  door  himself,  but  that  will  produce 
confusion.  She  will  have  no  time  to  dispose  of 
that  packet,  and  IMajor  Abbot  will  not  take  ad- 
vantage of  what  he  has  inadvertently  seen.  He 
hears  the  old  butler  shuffling  along  the  marble 
hallway,  and  his  deferential  announcement. 


148  A   WAR-TIME   WOOING. 

"  Mr.  Abbot  is  in  the  parlor,  Miss  "Winthrop." 

And  then  he  steps  forward  under  the  chande- 
lier to  meet  her. 

It  is  a  moment  before  she  enters.  Evidently 
his  coming  is  a  shock  for  which  she  is  unprepared. 
She  comes  in  with  swiftly  changing  color  and  lips 
that  tremble  despite  the  unflinching  courage  of 
her  eyes. 

"This  is  indeed  a  surprise,"  she  says,  as  she 
gives  him  her  hand.  "Why  —  when  did  you 
come,  and  how  did  you  come,  and  how  well  you 
look  for  a  man  who  has  had  so  much  suffering — 
I  mean  from  your  wounds,"  she  linishes,  hurried- 
ly. It  is  all  said  nervously  and  with  evident 
purpose  of  simply  talking  to  gain  time  and 
think.  "  "Won't  you  sit  down?  You  must  be  so 
fatigued.  Take  this  chair,  it's  so  much  more  com- 
fortable than  that  one  you  are  getting.  Have 
you  seen  mamma !  ]^o?  Why?  Does  she  know 
you  are  here  ?  Oh,  true ;  she  did  speak  of  a 
headache  before  I  went  out.  Mrs.  Laight  and  I 
have  been  to  dinner  at  the  Farnham's  and  have 
just  returned.  Why  didn't  3^ou  come  round  there 
— they'd  have  been  so  delighted  to  see  3"ou  ?  You 
know  you  are  quite  a  hero  now." 

He  lets  her  run  on,  sitting  in  silence  himself, 


A  WAR-TIME  WOOING.  149 

and  watching  her.  She  continues  her  rapid,  ner- 
vous talk  a  moment  more,  her  color  coming  and 
going  all  the  time,  and  then  she  stops  as  suddenly. 
"  Of  course  you  can  answer  no  questions  when  I 
keep  chattering  like  a  magpie." 

She  is  seated  now  on  the  sofa  facing  him,  as 
he  leans  back  in  one  of  those  old-fashioned  easy- 
chairs  that  used  to  find  their  way  into  some  par- 
lors in  the  ante -helium  days.  When  silence  is 
fully  established,  and  she  is  apparently  ready  to 
listen,  he  speaks : 

"  I  came  to-night,  Yiva,  and  to  see  you.  Did 
you  get  my  letter  ?" 

"  Your  last  one,  from  "Washington  ?  Yes.  It 
came  yesterday." 

"  I  have  come  to  see  the  letters." 

"What  letters r' 

"  Those  which  you  must  have  received  or  been 
shown  in  order  to  make  you  believe  me  disloyal 
to  you." 

"  I  have  no  such  letters." 

"  Did  you  send  them  to  me,  Yiva." 

":n'o." 

"What  did  you  do  with  them?" 
She  hesitates,  and  colors  painfully ;  then  seeks 
to  parry. 


150  A   WAE-TIME   WOOING. 

"  How  do  3'oii  know  I  ever  saw  any  letters  ?" 

''Because  nothing  less  could  explain  your  ac- 
tion; nor  does  this  justify  it.  Still,  I  am  not 
here  to  blame  you.  I  want  to  get  at  the  truth. 
What  did  you  do  with  them  ?" 

''  They— went  back." 

"  When  ?     Before  or  after  you  got  my  letter  ?" 

ISTo  answer  for  a  moment,  then : 

"  Wh}^  do  yo.u  ask  that  ?  What  possible  differ- 
ence can  it  make  ?  They  were  shown  me  in  strict 
confidence.  I  had  long  believed  you  cared  more 
for  another  girl  than  jon  did  for  me,  and  these 
letters  proved  it." 

''  I  do  not  admit  that,  Yiva,"  is  the  grave,  al- 
most stern  repl3\  "  But  do  you  mean  that,  after 
receiving  my  letter,  you  returned  those  that  I 
asked  for — that  I  had  a  right  to  see  ?" 

"They  were  called  for;  and  they  were  not 
mine  to  do  as  I  chose  with." 

''  Will  you  tell  me  how  and  by  whom  they  were 
called  for  ?" 

He  has  risen  now,  and  is  standing  under  the 
chandelier,  drawn  to  his  full  height. 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  speak  of  it  further.  I  have 
told  the  person  that  you  denied  the  truth  of  them, 
and  that  is  enough." 


A   WAR-TIME   WOOING.  151 

"I  am  sorry  that  you  mentioned  me  to  the 
person,  or  weighed  my  statements  in  any  such 
scale." 

''  Paul  Abbot !"  she  breaks  in  impetuously,  ris- 
ing too.  "  You  say  you  never  Avrote  to  this  girl, 
and  I  believe  you;  but  tell  me  this:  have  you 
never  seen  her  ?  do  you  not  at  this  moment  care 
for  her  infinitely  more  than  you  do  for  me  ?" 

He  considers  a  moment.  It  is  a  leading  ques- 
tion ;  one  he  had  not  expected ;  but  he  will  not 
stoop  to  the  faintest  equivocation.  Still,  he  wants 
her  to  understand. 

^'  Listen,  Yiva.  Up  to  the  time  of  your  letter  s 
coming  she  was  a  stranger  to  me.  Xow  I  have 
met  her.  She  and  her  father  were  in  the  same 
hotel  with  us  at  Washington ;  and  she,  too,  has 
been  victimized  by  forged  letters  as  you  have." 

"Enouo:h,  enouo^h!  AYhv  not  end  it  where  it 
is  ?  You  know  well  that  if  you  cared  for  me  that 
would  be  the  first  assurance.  Granted  that  we 
have  both  been  cheated,  fooled,  tricked,  why 
keep  up  the  farce  of  a  loveless  engagement? 
That,  at  least,  must  end  noioP 

"  Even  if  it  should,  Yiva,  I  am  not  absolved 
from  a  duty  I  owe  you.  It  is  my  conviction 
that  you  have  been  drawn  into  a  correspondence 


152  A   WAR-TIME   WOOING. 

with  a  man  against  whom  it  is  my  solemn  right 
and  duty  to  warn  you  at  once.  You  have  no 
brother.  For  Heaven's  sake  be  guided  by  what 
I  say.  Whatever  may  have  been  his  influence 
in  the  past,  you  can  never  in  the  future  recog- 
nize Mr.  Hollins.  If  not  captured  by  this  time, 
he  is  a  disgraced  exile  and  deserter." 

"  He  is  nothing  of  the  kind !  You,  and  impe- 
rious men  like  you,  denied  to  him  the  compan- 
ionship of  his  brother  officers,  and  his  sensitive 
nature  could  not  stand  it.  He  has  resigned  and 
left  the  service,  that  is  all." 

"You  are  utterly  mistaken,  Yiva.  What  I 
tell  you  is  the  solemn  truth.  For  your  name's 
sake  I  implore  you  tell  me  what  has  been  his  in- 
fluence in  the  past.  I  well  know  he  can  be  noth- 
ing to  you  in  the  future,  Yiva.  You  are  not  in 
communication  with  him  now,  are  you  ?" 

A  ring  at  the  bell.  The  old  butler  comes  sleep- 
ily shuffling  along  the  hall  again,  and  appears  at 
the  parlor  with  a  telegram.  "  They  sent  it  after 
you,  sir,"  is  the  explanation.  Abbot,  with  curi- 
ous foreboding,  opens,  and  hurriedly  reads  the 
words, 

"  Eix  also  deserted ;  is  believed  to  have  gone 
to  Boston." 


A   WAE-TIME   WOOING.  153 

"  Yiva !"  he  exclaims,  ''  the  man  you  gave  that 
packet  to  was  ELx,  another  deserter.  My  God ! 
Do  you  hiow  where  HoUins  is  ?" 

But  Yiva  Winthrop  has  fallen  back  on  the  sofa, 
covering  her  face  with  her  hands. 


Major  Abbot's  stay  in  Boston  is  but  brief.  He 
had  a  hurried  conference  with  the  j)olice  late  at 
night,  after  his  painful  interview  with  Miss  Win- 
throp,  and  there  is  lively  effort  on  part  of  those 
officials  to  run  down  the  bulky  stranger  to  whom 
she  had  intrusted  that  packet.  There  has  been 
a  family  conference,  too,  between  the  elders  of 
the  households  of  Abbot  and  Winthrop,  and  the 
engagement  is  at  an  end.  Coming  in  suddenly 
from  his  club,  Mr.  "Winthrop  entered  the  parlor 
immediately  after  the  receipt  of  the  telegram, 
and  he  is  overwhelmed  with  consternation  at  the 
condition  of  affairs.  He  has  insisted  on  a  full 
statement  from  Yiva's  lips,  and  to  her  mother 
the  story  has  been  told.  She  withholds  no  point 
that  is  at  all  material,  for  her  pride  has  been  hum- 
bled to  the  dust  in  the  revelation  that  has  come 
to  her.  She  is  not  the  first  woman,  nor  is  she  at 
all  liable  to  be  the  last,  to  undertake  the  task  of 
championing  a  man  against  the  verdict  of  his 


A  WAE-TIME   WOOmG.  155 

associates,  and  the  story  is  simple  enough.  With 
his  sad,  subdued  manner,  his  air  of  patient  suf- 
fering, and  his  unobtrusive  but  unerring  atten- 
tions, Mr.  HoUins  had  succeeded  in  making  a 
deep  impression  while  they  were  abroad.  ISTot 
that  her  heart  was  involved ;  she  protests  against 
that ;  but  her  sympathy,  her  pity,  was  aroused. 
He  had  never  inflicted  his  confidences  upon  her, 
but  had  deftly  managed  to  rouse  her  curiosity, 
and  make  her  question.  By  the  time  they  re- 
turned to  America  she  believed  him  to  be  a  sen- 
sitive gentleman,  poor,  talented,  struggling,  and 
yet  burdened  with  the  support  of  helpless  rela- 
tives, too  distant  of  kin  for  her  father's  notice. 
She  had  come  back  all  aflame  with  patriotic  fer- 
vor, too ;  and  his  glowing  words  and  soldierh^ 
longings  had  inspired  her  with  the  belief  that  here 
was  a  man  who  only  needed  a  start  and  fair  treat- 
ment to  enable  him  to  rise  to  distinction  in  his 
country's  service.  Through  her  father's  influ- 
ence he  was  commissioned  in  the  — th,  then 
being  organized,  and  in  her  friendship  she  had 
sought  to  make  his  path  easy  for  him.  But  he 
was  certainly  deep  in  her  confidence  even  then, 
and  shrewd  enough  to  take  advantage  of  it.  He 
had  frequently  written  before,  and  it  was  not  un- 


156  A  WAE-TIME   WOOING. 

natural  he  should  write  after  the  regiment  left 
for  the  front — letters  which  intimated  that  he 
was  far  from  content  among  his  associates,  which 
hinted  at  distress  of  mind  because  he  daily  saw 
and  heard  of  things  which  would  cause  bitter 
sorrow  to  those  who  had  the  right  to  command 
his  most  faithful  services.  He  had  shown  deep 
emotion  when  informed  of  her  engagement  to 
Mr.  Abbot,  and  it  was  hard  to  confess  this.  It 
soon  became  apparent  to  her  that  he  desired  her 
to  understand  that  he  deeply  loved  her,  and  was 
deterred  only  by  his  poverty  from  seeking  her 
hand.  Then  came  letters  that  were  constructed 
with  a  skill  that  would  have  excited  the  envy  of 
an  lago,  hinting  at  other  correspondences  on 
part  of  ]\Ir.  Abbot  and  of  neglects  and  infideli- 
ties that  made  her  proud  heart  sore.  Still  there 
were  no  direct  accusations  ;  but,  taken  in  con- 
nection with  the  long  periods  of  apparent  silence 
on  his  part  and  the  unloverlike  tone  of  his  let- 
ters when  they  reached  her,  the  hints  went  far 
to  convince  her  that  she  had  promised  her  hand 
to  a  careless  and  indifferent  wooer.  This  palli- 
ated in  her  mind  the  disloyalty  of  which  she  was 
guilty  toAvards  him,  and  at  last,  in  the  summer 
just  gone,  she  had  actually  written  to  Mr.  Hoi- 


A  WAE-TIME   WOOING.  157 

lins  for  proofs  of  his  assertions.  For  a  long  time 
— for  weeks — he  seemed  to  hold  back,  but  at  last 
there  came  three  letters,  written  in  a  pretty,  girl- 
ish hand.  She  shrank  from  opening  them,  but 
Mr.  Hollins,  in  his  accompanying  lines,  simply 
bade  her  have  no  such  compunction.  They  had 
been  read  by  half  a  dozen  men  in  camp  already, 
and  the  girl  was  some  village  belle  who  possibly 
knew  no  better.  She  did  read,  just  ten  lines,  of 
one  of  them,  and  was  shamed  at  her  act  as  she 
was  incensed  at  her  false  fiance.  The  ten  lines 
were  sweet,  pure,  maidenly  words  of  trust  and 
gratitude  for  his  praise  of  her  heroic  brother; 
and  in  them  and  through  them  it  was  easy  for 
the  woman  nature  to  read  the  budding  love  of  a 
warm-hearted  and  innocent  girl. 

This  roused  her  wrath,  and  would  have  led  to 
denunciation  of  him  but  for  the  news  of  liis 
wounds  and  danger.  Then  came  other  letters 
from  Hollins,  hinting  at  troubles  in  which  he 
was  involved ;  and  then,  right  after  Antietam, 
he  seemed  to  cease  to  write  for  a  fortnight,  and 
his  next  letter  spoke  of  total  change  in  all  his 
prospects — resignation  from  the  service,  serious 
illness,  possibly  permanently  impaired  health, 
and  then  of  suffering  and  want.    A  foul  accusa- 


158  A  WAR-TIME   WOOING. 

tion  had  been  trumped  up  against  him  by  ene- 
mies in  the  regiment ;  he  Avas  alleged  to  have 
stolen  letters  belonging  to  officers.  In  part  it 
was  true.  He  had  bribed  a  servant  to  get  those 
three  letters  which  he  sent  her,  that  she  might 
be  saved  from  the  fate  that  he  dreaded  for  her. 
It  was  for  her  sake  he  had  sinned ;  and  now  he 
implored  her  to  keep  his  secret,  and  to  return  to 
liim  all  his  letters  on  that  subject,  as  well  as  those 
he  had  sent  as  proofs.  He  dare  not  trust  them 
to  the  mails,  but  a  faithful  friend,  though  a  poor 
man  like  himself,  would  come  with  a  note  from 
him,  and  he  would  be  a  trusty  bearer.  The  friend 
had  come  but  the  morning  of  Abbot's  arrival. 
He  humbly  rang  at  the  basement  door ;  sent  up 
a  note ;  and,  recognizing  IloUins's  writing,  she 
had  gone  down  and  questioned  him.  He  sadly 
told  her  that  the  quartermaster  was  in  great 
trouble.  "His  enemies  had  conspired  against 
him;"  his  money  accounts  were  involved,  and 
there  lay  the  great  difficulty.  Mr.  Hollins 
would  never  forgive  him,  said  the  man,  if  he 
knew  he  was  hinting  at  such  a  thing,  but  what 
he  needed  to  help  him  out  of  his  trouble  was 
money.  It  made  her  suspicious,  but  she  reread 
the  note.     "He  is  devoted  to  me,  and  perfectly 


A  WAE-TIME   WOOING.  159 

reliable.  I  have  cared  for  him  and  his  sister 
from  childhood.  Do  not  fear  to  trust  the  letters, 
or  anything  you  may  write,  to  him." 

Mr.  Hollins  was  too  proud  ever  to  ask  for 
money  and  could  not  contemplate  the  possibility 
of  its  being  asked  in  his  behalf,  she  argued.  But 
if  anything  she  might  write  was  to  be  trusted  to 
the  messenger,  surely  she  could  trust  his  state- 
ments, and  so  she  questioned  eagerly.  The  bear- 
er thought  a  thousand  dollars  might  be  enough 
to  straighten  everything,  and  she  bade  him  be  at 
the  front  of  the  house  that  night  by  half  after 
ten,  to  bring  her  a  little  packet  he  spoke  of  as 
having  received  from  Hollins — her  OAvn  letters  to 
him — and  the  money  w^ould  be  ready.  There  was 
something  about  the  man's  face  and  carriage 
that  was  familiar.  She  could  not  tell  where  she 
had  seen  him,  but  felt  sure  that  she  had,  and  it 
seemed  to  her  that  it  was  in  uniform.  But  he 
denied  having  ever  been  in  service,  and  seemed  to 
shrink  into  shadow  as  though  alarmed  at  the 
idea.  During  the  day  she  got  the  money  from 
the  bank  and  gave  it,  as  Abbot  saw,  and  then 
when  the  telegram  came  it  all  flashed  across  her 
— the  messenger  was  indeed  Eix.  Eix  was  a  de- 
serter beyond  all  peradventure.    Then,  doubtless, 


160  A   WAK-TIME   WOOING. 

she  was  all  wrong  and  Abbot  all  right  as  to  the 
real  status  of  Mr.  Hollins.  No  wonder  she  Tvas 
overwhelmed. 

But  in  all  her  self-abasement  and  distress  of 
mind  Yiva  Winthrop  was  clear-headed  on  the 
question  of  the  dissolution  of  that  engagement. 
"  He  does  not  love  me  and  I  do  not  deserve  that 
he  should,"  was  her  epitome  of  the  situation. 
"  It  will  cause  him  no  sorrow  now,  and  it  must 
be  ended."  And  it  was.  He  called  and  asked 
to  see  her,  if  she  felt  well  enough  to  receive  him ; 
he  acquiesced  in  her  decision,  but  he  wanted  to 
part  as  friends.  She  begged  to  be  excused,  ex- 
plaining that  she  had  not  left  her  rooms  since  the 
night  of  his  arrival,  w^hich  was  true.  And  now, 
with  a  heart  that  beats  more  joyously  despite 
the  major's  proper  and  conscientious  effort  to 
believe  that  he  is  not  happier  in  his  freedom,  he 
is  hastening  back  to  the  front,  for  his  orders  have 
come. 

Two  things  remain  to  be  attended  to  before 
reporting  for  duty.  He  makes  every  effort  to 
find  Hollins's  hiding-place,  but  without  avail. 
Miss  "Winthrop  tells  him  that  beyond  the  post- 
mark, Baltimore,  there  is  not  a  clew  in  any  of  the 
letters,  and  that  they  have  ceased  coming  entire- 


A   WAE-TIME   Yv^OOING.  161 

ly.  Eix  made  no  mention  beyond  saying  that 
lie  was  in  Baltimore  among  people  who  would 
guard  him,  and  Eix  himself  has  gone — no  man 
can  say  whither. 

The  other  matter  is  one  to  which  he  hastens 
with  eager  heart.  Twice  he  has  written  to  Doc- 
tor Warren  since  their  parting  at  AYashington, 
and  he  has  asked  permission  to  call  upon  them  at 
Hastings  before  returning.  His  orders  come  be- 
fore any  reply.  He  therefore  writes  to  Hastings 
the  day  before  he  leaves  home,  begging  that  a 
telegram  be  sent  to  meet  him  at  the  Metropoh- 
tan,  the  war-time  rendezvous  of  army  men  when 
in  Xew  York  on  leave,  and  his  face  is  blank  with 
disappointment  when  the  clerk  tells  him  that  no 
telegram  has  been  received.  He  has  a  day  at 
his  disposal,  and  he  loses  no  time,  but  goes  up 
the  river  by  an  afternoon  train,  and  returns  by 
the  evening  "  accommodation  "  with  uneasy  heart. 
Doctor  Warren  and  Miss  Bessie  had  not  yet  come 
back  was  the  news  that  met  him  at  the  prett}^ 
little  homestead.  The  doctor  had  been  ill  in 
Washington,  and  when  he  was  well  enough  to 
start  the  young  lady  was  suddenly  taken  down. 
Abbot  is  vaguely  worried.  He  anxiously  ques- 
tions the  kindly  old  housekeeper,  and  draws  from 
11 


162  A  WAE-TIME   WOOING. 

her  all  that  she  knows.  She  is  looking  for  letters 
any  moment ;  but  the  last  one  was  from  Willard's, 
four  days  since,  saying  they  would  have  to  stay. 
Miss  Bessie  was  suddenly  taken  ill.  Won't  the 
gentleman  come  in  ?  and  she  will  get  the  letter. 
He  takes  off  his  cloak  and  forage  cap,  and  steps 
reverently  into  the  little  sitting-room,  wherein 
every  object  is  bathed  in  the  sunshine  of  late  af- 
ternoon, and  everywhere  he  sees  traces  of  her 
handiwork.  There  on  the  wall  is  Guthrie's  pict- 
ure ;  there  hangs  his  honored  sword  and  the  sash 
he  wore  when  he  led  the  charge  at  Seven  Pines. 
AYith  the  soldier-spirit  in  his  heart,  with  the  thrill 
of  sympathy  and  comradeship  that  makes  all 
brave  men  kin.  Abbot  stands  before  that  silent 
presentment  of  the  man  he  knew  at  college,  and 
slowly  stretches  forth  his  hand  and  reverently 
touches  the  sword-hilt  of  the  buried  oflBcer.  He 
is  not  unworthy ;  he,  too,  has  led  in  daring  charge, 
and  borne  his  country's  flag  through  a  hell  of 
carnage.  They  are  brothers  in  arms,  though  one 
be  gathered  already  into  the  innumerable  host 
beyond  the  grave.  They  are  comrades  in  spirit, 
though  since  college  days  no  word  has  ever  passed 
between  them,  and  Abbot's  eyes  fill  with  emo- 
tion he  cannot  repress  as  he  thinks  how  bitter  a 


A  WAR-TIME  wooma.  163 

loss  this  son  and  brother  has  been  to  the  stricken 
old  father  and  fragile  sister.  Ah !  could  he  but 
have  known,  that  day  on  the  Monocacy ;  could 
he  but  have  read  the  truth  in  the  old  man's  eyes, 
and  accepted  as  a  fact  his  share  of  that  mysteri- 
ous correspondence  rather  than  have  unwillingly 
dealt  so  cruel  a  blow !  His  lips  move  in  a  short, 
silent  prayer,  that  seems  to  well  up  from  his  very 
heart ;  and  then  the  housekeeper  is  at  his  side, 
and  here  is  the  doctor's  letter.  It  is  too  meagre 
of  detail  for  his  anxiety.  He  reads  it  twice,  but 
it  is  all  too  brief  and  bare.  He  is  recalled  to  him- 
self again.  The  housekeeper  begs  pardon,  but 
she  is  sure  this  must  be  Mr.  Abbot,  whose  letters 
were  so  eagerly  watched  for  all  the  time  before 
they  went  away.  She  had  heard  in  the  village 
he  was  killed,  and  she  is  all  a-quiver  now,  as  he 
can  see,  with  excitement  and  suppressed  feehng 
at  his  resurrection.  Yes,  this  is  Mr.  Abbot,  he 
tells  her,  and  he  is  going  straight  to  Washington 
that  he  may  find  them.  And  she  shows  him  pict- 
ures of  Bessie  in  her  girlhood,  Bessie  at  school, 
Bessie  in  the  bonnie  dress  she  wore  at  the  Sol- 
diers' Fair.  Yes,  he  remembers  having  seen  that 
very  group  before,  at  Edwards's  Ferry,  before 
Ball's  Bluff.     She  prattles  about  Bessie,  and  of 


164:  A   WAE-TIME   WOOING. 

Eessie's  going  for  his  letters,  and  how  she  cried 
over  them.  He  is  all  S3rmpathy,  and  bids  her  say 
on  as  he  moves  about  the  room,  touching  little 
odds-and-ends  that  he  knows  must  be  hers ;  and 
he  is  loath  to  go,  but  eager  too,  since  it  is  to 
carry  him  back  to  her.  He  writes  a  few  lines  on 
a  card  to  tell  them  of  his  visit  and  his  orders, 
should  they  fail  to  meet ;  he  begs  the  doctor  to 
write,  and  warns  him  that  he  must  expect  fre- 
quent letters ;  and  then,  with  one  long  look  about 
the  sunlit,  love-haunted  room,  with  one  appeal 
for  brotherly  sympathy  in  his  parting  gaze  at 
Guthrie  "Warren's  picture,  he  strides  back  to 
the  station,  and  by  sunrise  of  another  day  is  hur- 
rying to  Washington.  In  his  breast-pocket  he 
carries  the  compact  little  wad  of  letters,  all  ad- 
dressed to  himself,  all  written  in  her  own  deli- 
cate and  dainty  hand,  yet  sealed  from  his  eyes 
as  securely  as  though  locked  in  casket  of  steel. 
Though  he  longs  inexpressibly  to  read  their 
pages  and  to  better  know  the  gentle  soul  that 
has  so  suddenly  come  into  his  life,  they  are  not 
his  to  open.  "What  would  he  not  give  for  one 
moment  face  to  face  with  the  man  who  had 
lured  and  tricked  her — and  with  his  name ! 
They  are  not  at  AYillard's,  says  the  clerk,  when 


A  WAR-TIME   WOOING.  165 

Major  Abbot  arrives  and  makes  his  inquiries.   The 
doctor  paid  his  bill  that  morning  and  they  were 
driven  away,  but  he  does  not  think  they  left 
town.     Yes,  telegrams  and  letters  both  had  come 
for  the  doctor,  and  the  young  lady  had  been  con- 
fined to  her  room  a  few  days,  and  was  hardly  well 
enough  to  be  journeying  now.     Abbot's  orders 
require  him  to  report  at  the  War  Department  on 
the  following  day,  and  he  cannot  go  to  rest  until 
he  has  found  their  hiding-place.     Something  tells 
him  that  she  has  at  last  discovered  the  fraud  of 
which  she  has  been  made  the  victim,  and  he 
longs  to  find  her— longs  to  tell  her  that  if  the 
real  Paul  Abbot  can  only  be  accepted  in  heu  of 
the  imaginary  there  need  be  no  break  in  that 
strange  correspondence ;  he  is  ready  to  endorse 
anything  his  fraudulent  double  may  have  writ- 
ten provided  it  be  only  love  and  loyalty  to  her. 
It  is  late  at  night  before  he  has  succeeded  in 
finding  the  hack  driver  who  took  them  aAvay, 
and  by  him  is  driven  to  the  house  wherein  they 
have  sought  refuge.     All  distressed  as  he  is  at 
thought  of  their  fleeing  from  him,  Paul  Abbot 
finds  it  sweet  to  sit  in  the  carriage  which  less 
than  twelve  hours  ago  bore  her  over  these  self- 
same dusty  streets.    He  bids  the  hackman  rein 


166  A  WAR-TIME   WOOING. 

up  when  he  gets  to  the  corner,  and  wait  for  him. 
Then  he  pushes  forward  to  reconnoitre.  Lights 
are  burning  in  many  rooms,  but  the  neighbor- 
hood is  very  silent.  Far  down  an  intersecting 
avenue  the  band  of  some  regiment  is  serenading 
a  distinguished  senator  or  representative  from  the 
state  from  which  they  hail,  and  Abbot  can  hear 
the  cheers  with  which  the  great  man  is  greeted 
as  he  comes  forth  to  tender  his  acknowledgments, 
and  invite  the  oificers  and  such  of  his  fellow-citi- 
zens as  may  honor  him,  to  step  in  and  "have 
something."  It  is  a  windy  night  in  late  October. 
The  leaves  are  whirling  in  dusty  spirals  and  shut- 
ters bang  with  unmelodious  emphasis,  and  all  the 
world  seems  dreary ;  yet,  to  him,  with  love  hght- 
ing  the  way,  with  the  knowledge  that  the  girl 
he  has  learned  to  worship  is  here  within  these 
dull  brick  walls,  there  is  a  thrill  and  vigor  in 
every  nerve.  Xo  hght  burns  in  the  hallway; 
none  in  the  lower  floor  of  the  number  to  which 
he  has  been  directed.  He  well  knows  it  is  too 
late  to  call,  even  to  inquire  for  them,  but  the 
army  has  moved,  and  at  last  is  pushing  south- 
ward again,  feeling  its  way  along  the  Blue  Eidge, 
and  he  so  well  knows  that  the  morrow  must 
send  him  forward  to  resume  his  duties.     If  he 


A  WAR-TIME  WOOING.  167 

cannot  see  lier^  it  will  be  comfort,  at  least,  to  see 
her  father.  He  is  half  disposed  to  ring  and  ask 
for  him  when  a  figure  comes  around  a  neighbor- 
ing corner  and  bears  slowly  down  upon  him. 
The  night  lamps  are  dull  and  flickering  and  the 
stranger  is  a  mere  shadow.  Where  Major  Abbot 
stands  enveloped  in  the  cloak-cape  of  his  army 
overcoat  there  is  no  light  at  all.  Whoever  may 
be  the  approaching  party  he  has  the  disadvan- 
tage of  being  partially  visible  to  a  watcher  whose 
presence  he  cannot  be  aware  of  until  close  at 
hand.  When  he  has  come  some  yards  farther 
Abbot  is  in  no  doubt  as  to  his  identity,  and  steps 
forward  to  greet  him. 

"  Doctor  Warren,  I  am  so  glad  to  have  found 
you,  for  I  must  hurry  after  the  army  to-morrow, 
and  only  reached  Washington  this  evening.  Tell 
me,  how  is  Miss  Bessie  V 

The  doctor  is  startled,  as  a  matter  of  course, 
but  there  is  something  in  the  young  soldier's  di- 
rectness that  pleases  him.  Perha]3s  he  is  pleased, 
too,  to  know  that  his  own  views  are  correct,  and 
that  the  moment  Paul  Abbot  reached  Washing- 
ton he  has  come  in  search  of  them.  He  takes 
the  proffered  hand  and  holds  it — or,  rather,  finds 
his  firmly  held. 


168  A   WAR-TIME   WOOING. 

"  Bessie  has  been  ill,  but  is  better,  major ;  and 
how  did  you  leave  them  all  at  home  ?  I  have 
just  been  taking  a  walk  of  two  or  three  blocks 
before  turning  in.  Fresh  air  is  something  I  can- 
not do  without.     How  did  you  find  us  ?" 

^^  By  hunting  up  your  hackman.  I  was  griev- 
ously disappointed  at  not  finding  you  at  Hast- 
ings, where  I  went  first,  or  here  at  "Willard's. 
Did  you  not  get  my  letters  and  telegrams  ?" 

^'  They  were  forwarded,  and  came  last  night." 

'  ■  Then  you  moved  this  morning  to  avoid  me, 
doctor.  Does  it  mean  that  I  am  to  be  punished 
for  another  man's  crime  ?  Guthrie's  picture  had 
no  such  unfriendly  welcome  for  me,  and  I  do  not 
beUeve  you  want  to  hide  her  from  me.  Tell  me 
what  it  is  that  makes  Bessie  avoid  me  of  her  own 
accord.  Has  she  heard  the  truth  about  the  old 
letters?" 

Doctor  Warren  is  silent  a  moment,  looking  up 
into  the  young  soldier's  face.  Then  he  more  firm- 
ly grasps  his  hand. 

"I  do  not  want  to  avoid  you.  Abbot,  but  it  is 
only  natural  that  now  she  should  find  it  hard  to 
meet  you.  Three  days  after  you  left  she  caught 
me  fairly,  and  finding  that  the  letter  in  my  hand 
was  yours,  she  noted  instantly  the  difference  be- 


A   WAR-TIME   WOOING.  169 

tween  the  writing  and  that  of  the  letters  that 
came  to  her  at  home.  Something  else  had  roused 
her  suspicions,  and  I  had  to  tell  her  that  there 
had  been  trickery,  and  she  ^vould  have  no  half- 
way explanation.  She  probed  and  questioned 
with  a  wit  as  keen  as  any  lawyer's.  She  made 
me  confess  that  that  was  why  I  told  her  Paul 
Abbot  was  dead  when  I  got  back  to  her  at  Fred- 
erick. He  was  dead  to  us.  And  so,  httle  by  lit- 
tle, it  all  came  out,  and  she  was  simply  stunned 
for  a  while.  It  made  her  too  ill  to  admit  of  our 
travelling,  and  she  made  me  tell  her  when  you 
were  expected  back,  and  bring  her  here.  In  a 
day  or  two  we  will  start  homeward." 

"And  meantime  I  shall  have  had  to  start  for 
the  front.  Doctor  Warren,  give  her  this  httle 
package — her  own  letters.  Tell  her  that  I  have 
read  no  line  of  one  of  these,  but  that,  until  I  can 
win  for  myself  letters  in  her  dear  hand  there  will 
be  no  peace  or  happiness  for  me.  These  are  the 
letters  that  were  sent  to  you  at  Frederick,  with 
a  few  remorseful  lines,  from  the  scoundrel  who 
wrought  all  the  trouble.  His  original  motive 
was  simply  to  injure  me,  in  the  hope  that  he 
might  profit  by  it.  He  sought  to  break  an  en- 
gagement of  marriage  that  existed  between  me 


170  A   WAE-TIME   WOOING. 

and  Miss  Winthrop,  of  Boston.  Before  he  suc- 
ceeded in  making  this  breach  it  is  my  belief  that 
he  had  become  so  touched  and  charmed  b}^  the 
letters  she  Avrote  that  even  his  craven  heart  was 
turned  to  see  its  own  baseness.  He  had  every 
opportunity  of  tampering  with  our  mail.  He 
felt,  when  I  was  left  wounded  at  the  Monoca- 
cy,  that  that  would  end  the  play ;  and  then,  in 
his  despair  and  remorse,  he  deserted.  He  was 
around  Frederick  a  day  or  two  in  disguise,  and 
sought  to  see  you  and  her.  Failing  in  that,  he 
sent  you  by  the  landlady  the  packet  that  was  af- 
terwards taken  from  your  overcoat  by  the  secret- 
service  men  ;  and  the  next  thing  he  came  within 
an  ace  of  being  captured  by  his  own  colonel. 
Escaping,  he  was  believed  to  be  a  rebel  spy,  and 
so  implicated  you.  It  was  to  search  for  him  I 
was  sent  to  Boston.  There  Miss  Winthrop  for- 
mally broke  our  engagement,  and  I  would  be  a 
free  man  to-day,  doctor,  but  for  your  daughter; 
and  now  it  is  not  freedom  I  seek,  but  a  tie  that 
only  death  can  break.  You  came  to  Paul  Abbot 
when  you  thought  him  sorely  wounded,  and  she 
came  with  you.  IS'ow  that  he  is  sore  stricken  he 
comes  to  you.  If  it  will  pain  her  I  will  ask  no 
meeting  now,  but  don't  you  think  I  owe  her  a 


A  -WAK-TniE   WOOIKG.  171 

good  many  letters,  doctor?  'VVon-t  you  let  me 
pay  that  debt  ?" 

It  is  a  long  speech  for  Abbot,  but  his  heart  is 
full.  The  old  gentleman's  sad  face  seems  to  thaw 
and  beam  under  the  influence  of  his  frank  avow- 
al and  that  winning  plea.  Abbot  has  held  forth 
his  other  hand,  and  there  the  two  men  stand, 
both  trembhng  a  little,  under  the  influence  of 
a  deep  and  holy  emotion,  clasping  each  others 
hands  and  looking  into  each  other's  face.  They 
are  at  the  very  door-step  of  the  old-fashioned 
boarding-house  which  was  so  characteristic  a 
feature  of  the  capital  in  the  war -days.  The 
door  itself  is  but  a  few  arms' -lengths  away,  and 
all  of  a  sudden  it  softly  opens,  and,  with  a  hght 
mantle  thrown  over  her  shoulders,  a  tall,  slen- 
der, graceful  girl  comes  forth  upon  the  narrow 
porch. 

"  Is  that  you,  papa  ?  I  heard  your  step,  and 
wondered  why  you  remained  outside.  Was  the 
door  locked  ?" 

There  is  an  instant  of  silence.  Then  a  young 
soldier,  in  his  staff  uniform,  takes  three  quick, 
springing  steps,  and  is  at  her  side.  The  doctor 
seems  bent  on  further  search  for  fresh  air,  for  he 
turns  away  with  a  murmured  word  to  his  trem- 


172  A   WAR-TIME   WOOING. 

bling  companion,  and  Bessie  "Warren  finds  it  im- 
possible to  retreat.  Major  Abbot  has  seized  her 
hand,  and  is  saying— she  hardl}^  hears,  she  hard- 
ly knows,  what.  But  it  is  all  so  sudden ;  it  is  all 
so  sweet. 


"  Then  a  young  soldier  in  his  staff  uniform  takes  three 
springing  steps,  and  is  at  her  side.'' 


XI. 

Cold  and  gray  in  the  mist  of  the  morning  the 
long  cokimns  have  filed  down  from  the  heights, 
and  are  massed  at  the  water's  edge.  It  is  chill 
December,  and  the  frost  has  eaten  deep  into  the 
ruddj^  soil  of  Virginia,  but  the  Eappahannock 
flows  swiftly  along,  uncrusted  by  the  ice  that 
fetters  IS'orthern  streams,  yet  steaming  in  the  bit- 
ing air.  Fog-wreaths  rise  from  the  ripphng  sur- 
face, and  all  along  the  crowded  shore  the  clouds 
hang  dense  and  heavy.  Xowhere  can  one  see  in 
any  direction  more  than  a  dozen  yards  away ; 
all  beyond  is  wrapped  in  swirling,  eddying  fog- 
bank.  Here  in  the  thronging  ranks,  close  at 
hand,  men  speak  in  low  tones  as  they  stamp 
upon  the  frozen  ground  or  whip  their  mittened 
hands  across  the  broad  blue  chests  to  restore  cir- 
culation and  drive  the  ache  and  numbness  away. 
Here  and  there  are  some  who  have  turned  their 
light  blue  capes  up  over  their  heads,  and  take  no 
part  in  the  low-toned  chat.    Leaning  on  their 


174:  A  WAK-TIME   WOOING. 

muskets,  they  let  their  thoughts  go  wandering 
far  away,  for  all  men  know  that  bloody  work  is 
coming.  The  engineers  are  hammering  at  their 
bulky  pontoons  now,  and  down  at  the  water's 
edge  the  clumsy  boats  are  moored,  waiting  for 
chess  and  balk  carriers  to  be  told  off,  and  the 
crews  to  man  the  heavy  sweeps.  Up  on  the 
heights  to  the  rear,  planted  thickly  on  every 
knoll  and  ridge,  are  the  black  -  mouthed  guns, 
and  around  them  are  grouped  the  squads  of 
ghostly,  grisly,  fog-dripping  cannoneers.  One 
may  walk  along  that  line  of  heights  for  mile  after 
mile,  and  find  there  only  grim  ranges  of  batteries 
and  waiting  groups  of  men.  All  is  silence ;  all 
is  alertness ;  all  is  fog.  Back  of  the  lines  of  un- 
limbered  cannon,  sheltered  as  far  as  possible  from 
returning  fire,  the  drivers  and  horses  and  the 
heavy-laden  caissons  are  shrouded  in  the  mist- 
veil,  and  the  staff  officers,  groping  to  and  fro, 
have  to  ask  their  way  from  battery  to  battery, 
or  go  yards  beyond  their  real  objective  point. 
Little  fires  are  burning  here  and  there,  and  bat- 
tery-lanterns are  flickering  in  the  gloom.  Out 
on  the  face  of  the  stream,  too,  one  can  see  from 
the  northern  shore  weird,  dancing  lights,  like 
will-o'-the-wisps,  go  twinkling  through  the  fog ; 


A  "WAR-TIME   WOOING.  175 

and  far  across  the  waters,  from  time  to  time, 
there  is  heard  the  sudden  crack  of  rifle.  The 
Southern  pickets  are  beginning  to  catch  faint 
glimpses  of  those  lights,  and  are  opening  fire,  for 
vigilant  officers  are  there  to  interpret  every  sound 
and  sight,  and  with  the  first  break  of  the  wintry 
dawn  they  grasp  the  meaning  of  the  murmur 
that  has  come  for  hours  from  the  upper  shore. 
"The  Yanks  are  laying  bridges"  is  the  word 
that  goes  from  mouth  to  mouth,  and  long  before 
the  day  is  fairly  opened  the  nearing  sounds  and 
the  will-o'-the-wisp  lights  out  there  in  the  fog 
tell  the  shivering  pickets  that  the  foe  is  more 
than  half-way  across.  Daybreak  brings  strong 
forces  into  line  along  the  southern  bank,  all  eyes 
straining  through  the  fog.  Out  to  the  front  the 
ping !  ping !  of  the  rifles  has  become  rapid  and 
incessant,  and  by  broad  daylight  all  the  river 
bank  and  the  walls  of  the  buildings  that  com- 
mand a  view  of  it  are  packed  with  gray  riflemen 
ready  for  work  the  instant  those  bridge-heads 
loom  into  view.  "When  seven  o'clock  comes, 
and  the  fog  thins  just  a  little,  there  are  the  bridge- 
ends,  sure  enough,  poking  drearily  into  space,  but 
the  only  signs  of  the  builders  are  the  motionless 
forms  in  blue  that  are  stretched  here  and  there 


176  A  WAR-TIME   WOOING. 

about  the  boats  or  planks,  only  faintly  visible 
through  the  mist ;  the  working  parties  have  been 
forced  to  give  it  up.  Back  they  come,  what  is 
left  of  them,  and  tell  their  tale  among  the  sym- 
pathizing blue  overcoats  in  the  wearying  ranks, 
and  officers  ride  away  up  the  slopes,  and  there 
are  moments  of  suspense  and  question,  and  then 
the  thud  of  sponge-staff  and  rammer  among  the 
batteries,  and  a  sudden  flash  and  roar,  tearing 
the  mists  asunder ;  another,  another ;  and  then, 
up  and  down  along  the  line  of  heights,  the  order 
goes,  and  gun  after  gun  belches  forth  its  charge 
of  shot  and  shell,  and  back  from  the  walls  of 
Fredericksburg  comes  the  direful  echo  and  the 
crash  of  falling  roof  or  gable.  "  Depress  those 
muzzles!"  is  the  growling  order.  ''The  whole 
bank  is  alive  with  rebs,  and  we  must  shell  'em 
out  before  those  bridges  can  be  finished."  The 
elevating  screws  are  spun  in  their  beds,  the  shell 
fuzes  cut  down  to  the  very  edge.  Some  guns 
are  so  near  the  river  that  they  are  rammed  with 
grape  and  canister ;  and  so,  for  an  hour,  the  thun- 
dering cannonade  goes  on,  and  the  infantry  crouch 
below,  and  swear  and  shiver,  and  once  in  a  while 
set  up  a  cheer  when  occasion  seems  to  warrant 
it.     And  then,  covered  by  this  furious  fog-bom- 


A  WAK-TDIE  WOOING.  177 

bardment,  the  engineers  again  push  forward  their 
bridge-builders,  and  cram  their  pontoons,  and 
launch  them  forth  upon  the  stream.  It  is  all  use- 
less. ]^o  sooner  do  they  reach  the  bridge-end 
when  down  they  go  by  the  dozens  before  the  hot 
fire  of  a  thousand  Southern  rifles.  So  dense  is 
the  fog  that  the  gunners  cannot  aim.  Shot,  shell, 
and  canister  go  shrieking  through  roof  and  wall, 
and  ripping  up  streets  and  crossings;  but  the 
plucky  riflemen  hug  the  shore  in  stern  determi- 
nation, and  again  the  bridges  are  abandoned. 

And  so  a  cold  and  cheerless  morning  ebbs 
away ;  and  at  last,  towards  noon,  there  comes 
relief.  The  sun  bursts  through  the  clouds,  and 
licks  up  the  fog-bank.  The  mist-veil  is  with- 
drawn, and  there  stands  Fredericksburg,  with 
shattered  roof  and  spire,  backed  by  a  long  line 
of  gun-bristling  heights,  and  there  are  the  unfin- 
ished bridges  jutting  helplessly  out  two  thirds 
across  the  water.  A  number  of  the  heavy  pon- 
toons are  still  moored  close  to  shore,  and  while 
all  along  under  the  bank  the  regiments  are  rang- 
ino;  into  battle  order,  two  or  three  of  them  are 
tumbling  into  those  clumsy  arks,  cramming  them 
with  armed  men,  and  then  pushing  off  into  the 
stream.  Failing  in  working  across  a  narrow 
12 


178  A  WAE-TIME  -WOOING. 

causeway, the  "Yanks"  are  taldng  to  their  boats 
and  sending  over  a  flotilla.  It  is  a  daring,  des- 
perate feat,  but  it  tells.  Despite  the  fierce  re- 
sistance, despite  the  heavy  loss  that  befalls  them, 
animated  by  the  cheers  of  their  comrades,  they 
push  ahead,  answering  the  fire  as  well  as  they 
can,  and  at  last,  one  after  another,  the  boats  are 
grounded  on  the  southern  shore,  and,  though  sad- 
ly diminished  in  numbers,  the  men  leap  forth 
and  go  swarming  up  the  bank,  driving  the  gray 
pickets  to  cover.  Others  hurry  across  and  rein- 
force them ;  then  more  and  more,  until  they  are 
strong  enough  to  seize  the  nearest  buildings  and 
hold  the  approaches,  and  then  the  working  par- 
ties leap  forward ;  the  bridge  is  finished  with  a 
will,  and  the  comrades  of  their  brigade  come 
tramping  cheerily  across.  Three  splendid  regi- 
ments are  they  which  made  that  daring  venture, 
mere  companies  in  numbers  as  compared  with 
their  early  strength,  and  one  of  them  is  the  — th 
Massachusetts,  now  led  by  a  captain.  Colonel 
Putnam  stands  at  his  side  at  this  moment  of  tri- 
umph and  partial  rest.  He  commands  the  bri- 
gade that  has  done  this  brilliant  work,  and  now 
is  receiving  the  thanks  sent  over  from  cor23s  head- 
quarters ;  and  the  mounted  officer,  the  first  one 


A  WAR-TIME  WOOING.  179 

across  the  bridge,  who  bears  the  general's  con- 
gratulations, is  his  young  chief -of -staff,  Major 
Abbot. 

There  has  been  fierce  fighting  through  the 
streets,  stubborn  resistance  on  part  of  the  occu- 
pants of  the  town,  and  determined  effort  on  part 
of  the  thronging  force  of  Union  men  who  are 
constantly  gaining  accessions  as  the  brigades 
come  marching  over.  Just  at  sunset,  with  the 
town  fully  in  their  possession,  there  is  sudden 
turmoil  and  excitement  among  the  blue-coats 
gathered  around  an  old  brick  building  near  the 
western  edge.  There  is  rushing  to  and  fro ; 
then  savage  exclamations,  shouts  of  "  Kill  him !" 
"  Hang  him !"  "  Eun  him  down  to  the  creek  and 
duck  him !"  and  the  brigade  commander,  with 
Major  Abbot  and  one  or  two  other  mounted  offi- 
cers, has  quite  as  much  as  he  can  do  to  rescue 
from  the  hands  of  an  infuriated  horde  of  soldiers 
a  bruised,  battered,  slouching  hulk  of  a  man  in  a 
dingy  Confederate  uniform.  He  implores  their 
protection,  and  it  is  only  when  they  see  the  pit- 
eous, haggard,  upturned  face,  and  hear  the  wail 
of  his  voice,  that  Putnam  and  Abbot  recognize 
the  deserter,  Eix.  Abbot  is  off  his  horse  and  by 
his  side  in  an  instant.     Sternly  ordering  back  the 


180  A  WAK-TIME  WOOING. 

men  who  had  grappled  and  were  dragging  him, 
the  major  holds  Kix  by  the  coat-collar  and  gazes 
at  him  in  silent  amaze. 

"  In  God's  name,  how  came  yon  here,  and  in 
this  garb  ?"  he  finally  asks. 

"Weak  with  sickness,  suffering,  and  the  horrible 
fright  he  has  undergone,  the  bully  of  former  days 
simply  shudders  and  cringes  now.  He  crouches 
at  Abbot's  feet,  gazing  fearfully  around  him  at 
the  circle  of  vengeful,  powder-blackened  faces. 

'^  Don't  let  them  touch  me,  Mr.  Abbot !  Oh, 
for  God's  sake  help  me.  I'm  'most  dead,  any- 
how. I  can't  talk  now.  We're  'most  starved, 
too,  and  Mr.  Hollins  is  dying." 

"  HoUins !"  exclaims  Abbot,  almost  losing  his 
hold  on  the  collar  and  dropping  the  limp  creat- 
ure to  earth.     "What  do  you  mean?  where?" 

"  In  there ;  in  the  bedroom  up-stairs.  Oh,  ma- 
jor, don't  leave  me  here ;  these  men  wiU  murder 
me !"  he  implores,  clutching  the  skirts  of  Abbot's 
heavy  overcoat ;  but  Colonel  Putnam  signals  "Go 
on,"  and,  leaving  his  abject  prisoner.  Abbot  has- 
tens up  the  stairs  of  the  old  brick  house,  and  there, 
in  a  low-ceilinged  room,  stretched  upon  the  bed, 
with  wild,  wandering  eyes  and  fevered  lips,  with 
features  drawn  and  ghastly,  lies  the  man  who 


A   WAR-TIME  WOOING.  181 

has  so  bitterly  sinned  against  him,  and  whom  he 
has  so  often  longed  to  meet  eye  to  eye — but  not 
this  way. 

And  it  is  an  awful  look  of  recognition  that 
greets  him,  too.  Shot  through  and  through  as 
he  is,  tortured  with  thirst  and  suffering,  praying 
for  help  and  longing  for  the  sight  of  some  friend- 
ly face,  it  seems  a  retribution  ahnost  too  cruel 
that,  in  his  extreme  hour,  the  man  sent  by  Heav- 
en to  minister  to  his  needs  should  be  the  one  he 
has  so  foully  wronged,  the  one  of  whom  he  lives 
in  dread.  He  covers  his  eyes  with  a  gesture  of 
dismay,  and  turns  fearfully  to  the  wall.  There 
is  a  moment  of  silence,  broken  only  by  the  rattle 
of  the  window  in  its  casing  as  it  shudders  to  the 
distant  boom  of  the  guns  far  down  the  hne. 
Then  Abbot  steps  to  the  bedside  and  places  his 
gauntleted  hand  upon  the  shoulder  of  the  strick- 
en man. 

"Hollins!  How  are  you  wounded?  Have 
you  seen  a  surgeon  ?" 

ISTo  answer  for  a  moment,  and  the  question  is 
gently  repeated. 

"Shot  through  the  body — rifle-ball.  There 
was  a  surgeon  here  last  night,  but  he's  gone." 

"  Lie  still  then  until  I  get  one.    I  would  bring 


182  A  WAE-TIME  WOOING. 

Doctor  Thorn,  but  he  has  too  much  to  do  with — 
too  much  to  do  just  now."  He  comes  near  say- 
ing "  with  our  own  men,"  but  checks  himself  in 
time.  He  cannot  "kick  the  man  that  is  down  " 
with  such  a  speech  as  that,  and  it  is  not  long  be- 
fore he  reappears,  and  brings  with  him  a  surgeon 
from  one  of  the  arriving  regiments.  Colonel  Put- 
nam, too,  comes  up  the  stairs,  but  merely  to  take 
a  look  at  the  situation,  and  place  a  guard  over 
both  the  wounded  man  and  his  strange,  shiver- 
ing companion,  Eix.  Some  of  the  soldiers  are 
sent  for  water,  and  others  start  a  fire  in  the  little 
stove  in  the  adjoining  room.  The  doctor  makes 
his  examination,  and  does  what  he  can  for  his 
sinking  patient,  but  when  he  comes  out  he  tells 
Abbot  that  Hollins  has  not  many  hours  to  live, 
"  and  he  wants  to  see  you,"  he  adds.  "  Did  you 
know  him  ?" 

There  is  a  strange  scene  in  the  cramped  little 
room  of  the  quaint  old  house  that  night.  By 
the  light  of  two  or  three  commissary  candles 
and  the  flickering  glare  from  the  fire  one  can 
see  the  features  of  the  watchers  and  of  the  fast- 
dying  man.  Abbot  sits  by  the  bedside ;  Colonel 
Putnam  is  standing  at  the  foot,  and  the  adjutant 
of  the  — th  Massachusetts  has  been  reading  aloud 


A  WAK-TIME   WOOING.  183 

from  his  notes  the  statement  he  has  taken  down 
from  the  lips  of  the  former  quartermaster.  One 
part  of  it  needs  verification  from  authority  not 
now  available.  Mr.  Ilollins  avers  that  he  is  not 
a  deserter  to  the  enemy  as  appearances  would  in- 
dicate, but  a  prisoner  paroled  by  them. 

The  statement,  so  far  as  it  bears  upon  his  offi- 
cial connection  with  the  regiment,  is  about  as 
follows : 

"  I  had  personal  reasons  for  going  back  to  the 
Monocacy — reasons  that  could  not  be  explained 
to  the  satisfaction  of  a  commanding  officer.  I 
had  to  see  Mr.  Abbot  to  explain  a  wrong  I  had 
done  him,  and  avert,  if  possible,  the  consequences. 
I  left  without  permission,  and  rode  back,  but 
found  all  the  roads  picketed,  and  I  was  compelled 
to  hide  with  a  farmer  near  Boonsboro  until  Eix 
reached  me.  He  had  been  my  clerk,  and  was  an 
expert  penman.  He  fixed  the  necessary  papers 
for  me,  and,  with  the  aid  of  certain  disguises  I 
had,  it  was  not  so  hard  to  get  around.  I  meant 
to  resign,  but  feared  that,  if  offered  through  the 
regular  channels,  it  would  be  refused,  and  I  be 
brought  to  trial  because  of  the  condition  of  my 
accounts.  Then  I  found  that  I  was  too  late  to 
undo  the  wrong  I  had  done,  and  it  was  while 


1S4:  A  WAK-TIME  WOOING. 

trying  to  make  partial  amends  that  I  came  so 
near  being  captured  by  Colonel  Putnam  at  Fred- 
erick. It  made  me  desperate.  That  night  I  took 
the  first  horse  I  could  find,  and  rode  down  the 
valley,  beUeving  all  was  lost,  and  that  I  must  get 
away  from  that  part  of  the  country.  Money 
found  me  a  hiding-place  when  my  papers  would 
no  longer  serve.  Then  money  bribed  a  messen- 
ger to  carry  word  of  my  condition  to  Eix,  who 
had  been  sent  to  the  regiment  at  Harper's  Ferry. 
He  got  away  and  joined  me,  and  made  out  some 
more  papers  for  me,  and  then  started,  by  night 
and  alone,  to  get  home,  where  he  said  he  had 
money.  Mine  was  about  gone  by  that  time,  and 
here  I  lay  in  hiding  until  Stuart  came  sweeping 
down  the  Monocacy  on  his  way  back  to  Virginia, 
and  I  was  glad  to  be  captured  and  carried  along. 
I  gave  him  my  proper  name  and  rank,  and  when 
Eix  came  back  the  army  had  left  that  part  of 
the  country,  and  he  followed  me  into  Virginia. 
He  said  he  would  be  shot,  anyway,  if  captured ; 
and  the  next  I  heard  of  him — I  being  then  a 
prisoner  in  Richmond — was  that  he  had  enlisted 
in  a  Virginia  regiment,  and  was  dying  here  in 
Fredericksburg.  He  had  been  devoted  to  me, 
and  needed  me.     I  gave  my  parole,  and  was 


A  WAE-TIME  WOOING.  185 

allowed  to  come  here  to  nurse  him.  He  was 
recovering  and  able  to  be  about  when  the  bom- 
bardment opened,  and  I  was  shot  at  the  river 
bank,  whither  I  had  gone  to  bid  him  good-bye,  and 
was  carried  here.  The  rest  that  I  have  to  say  is 
for  Major  Abbot  alone  to  hear." 

Putnam  and  the  adjutant,  after  a  few  ques- 
tions, withdraw ;  and  at  last,  with  even  the  sol- 
dier nurse  excluded,  the  dying  man  is  alone  with 
the  one  officer  of  his  regiment  w^ho  had  striven 
to  befriend  him,  and  whom  he  has  so  basely  re- 
warded. 

"  There  is  no  time  for  lamenting  or  empty  talk 
of  forgiveness  and  remorse.  It  is  time  you  heard 
the  truth,  Abbot.  I  alwavs  envied  vou  at  col- 
lege.  I  envied  every  man  who  had  birth  or 
wealth  or  position.  I  had  some  brains,  but  was 
poor,  burdened  with  the  care  of  a  vagabond 
brother  who  was  well-nigh  a  jail-bird,  and  whose 
only  talent  was  penmanship.  He  would  have 
been  a  forger  then  if  it  hadn't  been  for  me.  For 
me  he  afterwards  became  one.  You  know  who 
I  mean  now — Eix.  Mr.  "AVinthrop  gave  me  op- 
portunities, and  I  worked.  I  had  little  money, 
though,  but  time  and  again  I  was  called  to  his 
house,  saw  his  daughter,  and  I  was  ambitious. 


186  A   WAE-TIME   WOOING. 

"When  she  went  abroad  I  followed ;  was  as  dis- 
creetly attentive  as  my  wit  could  make  me — and 
when  I  failed  to  make  the  impression  I  hoped, 
and  we  returned,  I  learned  the  reason — she  was 
engaged  to  you.  It  made  me  determine  that  I 
would  undermine  it.  You  did  not  love  her,  nor 
she  you.  It  was  a  family  match,  and  not  one 
that  would  make  either  of  you  happy.  My  life 
in  the  regiment  was  a  heU,  because  they  seemed 
to — seemed  to  know  me  for  what  I  was.  And 
you  simply  tolerated  me.  It  made  a  devil  of  me. 
Abbot,  and  I  vowed  that  proud  girl  should  love 
me  and  turn  from  you  if  I  had  to  hang  for  the 
means  that  brought  it  about.  I  was  quartermas- 
ter at  Edwards's  Ferry,  and  Eix  was  the  man  who 
fetched  and  carried  the  mails.  'Twas  easy  enough 
to  abstract  her  letters  or  yours  from  time  to  time, 
but  the  case  needed  something  more  than  that, 
l^eglect  would  not  rouse  her;  jealousy  might. 
One  day  there  came  the  picture  of  those  girls 
at  Hastings  (Abbot's  hands  begin  to  clinch ;  he 
has  listened  coldly  up  to  this  point),  and  I  saw 
the  group  that  was  sent  to  them,  and  the  pretty 
letter  written  by  their  secretary.  Miss  "Warren. 
Then  came  her  letter  saying  she  was  Guthrie 
Warren's  sister.     I  knew  him  well  at  coUege, 


A  WAE-TIME  WOOING.  187 

and  an  idea  occurred  to  me.  I  took  your  pict- 
ure, wrote  a  note,  and  had  Eix  copy  it,  and  sent 
it  in  your  name.  When  the  answer  came  Eix 
and  I  were  on  the  lookout  for  it,  and  got  it,  and 
wrote  again  and  again.  I  had  matter  enough  to 
work  on  with  my  knowledge  of  "Warren,  and 
then  his  death  intensified  the  interest.  I  don't 
care  to  look  in  your  face  now.  Abbot,  for  I'm 
not  a  fearless  man ;  nothing  but  a  beaten,  broken, 
cowardly  scoundrel ;  but  I  began  trying  on  that 
sweet  and  innocent  country  girl  the  arts  against 
which  J oviV  fiancee^  my  highbred  kinswoman,  had 
been  proof;  I  was  bound  to  punish  her  pride. 
But  I  found  my  pretty  correspondent  as  shy,  as 
maidenly  and  reserved,  with  all  her  sister-love 
and  pride,  as  the  other  was  superior.  It  was 
game  worth  bringing  down,  by  Heaven !  and  I 
grew  desperate.  I  was  drinking  then,  and  get- 
ting snarled  up  in  my  accounts,  and  you  had 
turned  a  cold  shoulder  on  me;  and  then  came 
the  campaign  and  Eix's  break  and  more  difficul- 
ties, and  I  was  at  my  wit's  end  to  keep  the  let- 
ters from  you ;  and  just  before  Second  BuU  Eun 
came  Miss  Winthrop's  letters  challenging  me  to 
prove  that  you  did  not  care  for  her,  and  I  sent 
her  three  of  Miss  Warren's  letters.    But,  worse 


188  A  WAE-TIME  WOOING. 

than  that,  I  had  been  wooing  another  in  your 
name ;  and,  because  she  would  not  betray  an  un- 
due interest,  I  became  more  engrossed ;  became 
more  warmly  interested ;  and  soon  it  was  not  for 
the  sake  of  showing  jown  fiancee  a  love-letter  from 
another  woman,  but  to  satisfy  the  cravings  of  my 
own  heart.  I  began  more  and  more  to  strive  to 
win  this  dainty,  innocent,  pure-minded  girl.  Aye, 
sir,  I  was  wooing  over  your  name ;  but  'twas  I 
who  loved ;  yes,  loved  her.  Abbot.  jS'oio^  what 
think  you  of  me  and  what  I  suffered  ?" 

He  pauses  a  moment,  choked  and  quivering. 
He  motions  with  his  hand  to  the  cup  of  stimu- 
lant the  doctor  has  left  him.  Abbot  coldly  hands 
it  to  him,  and  finds  that  he  must  raise  him  from 
the  pillow  before  he  can  swallow.  He  is  stirred 
to  his  inmost  soul  with  wrath  and  indignation 
against  this  ruthless  traitor,  even  when  the  fates 
have  laid  him  low.  It  is  hard  to  touch  him  gen- 
tly, but  he  steps  to  his  side  and  does  what  he 
can,  bidding  him  use  no  exertion  and  be  calm  as 
possible.  A  few  painful,  hurried  breaths,  and 
then  HoUins  goes  on  again. 

"  Though  not  once  had  she  confessed  her  love, 
I  felt  I  was  gaining.  She  sent  me  her  photo- 
graph.    It  is  here,  on  my  breast ;  I  have  carried 


A  WAE-TIME  TVOOmG.  189 

it  day  and  night."  Abbot's  muscles  grew  rigid 
again  and  bis  stern  face  sets  with  a  sterner  look. 
*'  But  I  was  in  constant  worry  about  my  affairs 
and  the  coming  of  those  letters.  Then  when  you 
were  wounded  and  left  behind  at  South  Mountain 
I  felt  that  the  crisis  had  come.  I  had  to  get  back 
there.  Something  told  me  she  would  hasten  to 
you.  They  came,  and  I  had  the  agony  of  seeing 
him — her  father — returning  from  his  visit  to  you ; 
Eix  told  me  of  it  afterwards.  Then  I  strove 
madly  to  see  her ;  to  tell  her  the  truth,  though  I 
knew  she  would  only  despise  and  spurn  me.  I 
scrawled  a  note  confessing  my  crime,  but  sending 
no  name;  gave  it  to  the  woman  to  give  to  the 
doctor,  and  then  tore  myself  away.  I  was  the 
rebel  spy  the  colonel  nearly  caught,  and  from 
that  time  I  have  been  a  fugitive ;  and  now — a 
chance  shot  ends  it  all.  Eix  has  been  faithful  to 
me,  poor  devil,  and  I  came  here  to  do  what  I 
could  for  him.  Voila  tout!  Abbot,  don't  let 
them  shoot  him.  He  isn't  worth  it.  Give  me 
more  of  that  brandy." 

He  lies  back  on  the  grimy  pillow,  breathing 
fast  and  painfully.  Abbot  stands  in  silence  a 
moment.  Then  his  voice,  stern  and  constrained, 
is  heard  in  question : 


190  A  WAE-TIME  WOOING. 

"  Have  you  any  messages,  Hollins  ?  Is  there 
any  way  in  which  I  can  serve  you  ?" 

"It  seems  tough — but  the  only  friend  I  have 
to  close  my  eyes  is  the  man  I  plotted  against 
and  nearly  despoiled  of  his  lady-love,"  mutters 
HoUins.  Either  he  is  wandering  a  little  bit  or 
the  brandy  is  potent  enough  to  blur  his  sense  of 
the  nearness  of  death.  "  I  wanted  to  tell  you  the 
truth — not  that  I  look  for  forgiveness.  I  know 
your  race  well  enough.  You'll  see  fair  play,  but 
love  and  hate  are  things  you  don't  change  in 
much.  I've  no  right  to  ask  anything  of  you, 
but — who  is  there?  My  God!  I  believe  your 
wife  that  is  to  be  was  about  the  only  friend  I  had 
in  the  world — except  Eix.  He  brought  me  back 
the  letters,  and  says  she  was  so  good  to  him.  I 
hope  he  didn't  ask  her  for  money.  He  swears  he 
didn't,  but  he's  such  a  bar !  We  both  are,  for  that 
matter.  I'm  glad,  though,  now,  that  my  lies 
didn't  hurt  you.  They  didn't,  did  they,  Abbot  ? 
You're  stiU  engaged  ?" 

"  I — am  eno^ao^ed." 

''  Oh,  well ;  if  I  only  hadn't  brought  that  dam- 
nable sorrow  to  that  poor  child,  and  if  I  could 
only  feel  that  they  wouldn't  shoot  Eix,  it  wouldn't 


A   WAE-TDIE  WOOING.  191 

be  so  bad — my  going  now.  What  will  they  do 
withEixT 

^'He  must  stand  trial  for  desertion,  I  fancy. 
The  men  nearly  lynched  him  as  it  was." 

"I  know,  and  you  saved  him.  Isn't  it  all 
strange  ?"  Here  for  over  a  year  we  two  have 
been  i^lotting  against  you,  and  now,  at  the  last, 
you're  the  only  friend  we  have.  "Where  is 
he?" 

"Down  below,  under  guard.  You  shall  see 
him  whenever  you  feel  like  it.  Is  there  any 
one  else  you  want  to  see,  Hollins  ?" 

"  Any  one— any  one  ?  Ah,  God  !  Yes,  with  a 
longing  that  burns.  It  is  her  face.  It  is  she — 
Bessie !"  His  hand  steals  feebly  into  his  breast, 
and  he  drags  slowly  forth  a  little  packet  of  oiled 
silk.  This  he  hugs  close  to  his  fluttering  heart, 
and  his  eyes  seek  those  of  the  young  soldier 
standing  there  so  strong,  so  self-rehant  and 
erect.  His  glance  seems  envious,  even  now, 
with  the  fast  -  approaching  angel's  death -seal 
dimming  their  light,  and  the  clammy  dew  gath- 
ering on  his  brow. 

"  It  was  your  picture  I  sent  her,  just  as  you 
seem  to  stand  there  now.  It  was  I  who  won 
her,  but  she  thinks  I  looked  like  you." 


192  A  WAE-TIME  WOOING. 

"  Pardon  me,  Hollins,"  breaks  in  Abbot,  with  a 
voice  that  trembles  despite  every  effort  at  self- 
control,  and  trembles,  too,  through  the  very  cold- 
ness of  the  tone.  "  Colonel  Putnam  is  not  far 
off.  There  are  others  whom  you  might  like  to 
see ;  and  shall  I  send  Eix  to  you  ?" 

"J^To — not  now — no  use.  Promise  me  this, 
Abbot.  1^0  matter  where  or  how  I'm  buried — 
never  mind  coffin,  or  the  flag,  or  the  volleys,  or 
the  prayers ;  I  don't  deserve —  They  won't  help 
me.  You  see  to  it,  will  you,  that  this  is  buried 
on  my  heart  ?  It's  her  picture,  and  some  letters. 
Promise." 

Abbot  slowly  bows  his  head. 

"  I  promise,  HoUins,  if  it  will  comfort  you." 

"If  there  were  only  some  way — some  way 
to  teU  her.  I  loved  her  so.  She  might  forgive 
when  she  knew  how  I  died.  You  may  see  her, 
Abbot.  Stop !  take  these  three  letters ;  they're 
addressed  to  you,  anyway.  Take  them  to  her, 
by  and  by,  and  tell  her,  will  you  ?  but  let  the 
picture  go  with  me." 

The  clutching  fingers  of  one  hand  clasp  about 
the  slim  envelope  that  contains  the  little  photo- 
graph ;  the  fingers  of  the  other  hand  are  pluck- 
ing nervously  at  the  blanket  that  is  thrown  over 


A  WAE-TIME   WOOING.  193 

the  dying  man.  There  is  another  moment  of 
silence,  and  then  Abbot  again  asks  him  if  he  will 
have  his  brother  brought  to  him.  Ilollins  nods, 
and  Abbot  goes  to  the  door  and  whispers  a  few 
words  to  the  orderly.  "When  he  returns  a  feeble 
hand  gropes  its  way  towards  him,  and  Ilollins 
looks  up  appealingly. 

"  I'm  so  much  weaker.  I'm  going  fast.  Would 
you  shake  hands.  Abbot?  What!  Then  you 
bear  me  no  ill-will  ?" 

"Idonot,Hollins." 

The  clouding  eyes  seem  to  seek  his  wistfully, 
wonderingly. 

"  And  yet — I  wronged  you  so." 

"  Do  not  think  of  me.     That — all  came  right." 

"  I  know — I  know.  It  is  her  heart  I  may  have 
broken — Bessie's.  My  God!  AYhat  could  she 
have  thought  when  he  came  back  to  her — after 
seeing  you  ?" 

"He  told  her  her  lover  was  dead.  I  made 
inquiries." 

"  Thank  God  for  that !  But  all  the  same — she 
is  sorrowing — suffering — and  it's  all  my  doing. 
I  believe  I  could  die  content,  almost  happy,  if  I 
knew  she  had  not — if  I  knew — I  had  not — 
brought  her  misery." 
13 


194  A  WAE-TIME  WOOING. 

"  Are  you  sure,  Hollins  ?" 

"Sure!  Heaven,  yes!  Why,  Abbot?  Do 
you — do  you  know  ?" 

"She  seems  happy,  Hollins.  She  is  to  be 
married  in  the  spring ;  I  don't  know  just 
when." 

There  is  another  moment  of  intense  silence  in 
the  little  room.  Outside  the  muffled  tramp  of 
the  night  patrols  and  the  gruff  challenge  of  sen- 
tries fall  faintly  on  the  ear.  Within  there  is 
only  the  quick  breathing  of  the  sinking  man. 
There  is  a  long,  long  look  from  the  dying  eyes ; 
a  slow  movement  towards  the  well-nigh  pulse- 
less heart.  Then  comes  the  sound  of  heavy  feet 
upon  the  stair,  and  presently  the  uncouth  form 
of  Eix  is  at  the  threshold,  a  piteous  look  in  his 
haggard  face.  Abbot  raises  a  hand  in  warn- 
ing, and  glances  quickly  from  the  prisoner  at 
the  door  to  the  frame  whence  fast  is  ebbing  the 
imprisoned  soul.  The  hand  that  had  faintly 
clasped  his  is  slowly  creeping  up  to  the  broad 
and  brawny  chest,  so  feeble  now.  Far  across 
the  rippling  waters  of  the  Eappahannock  the 
notes  of  a  bugle,  prolonged  and  distant,  soft  and 
solemn,  float  upon  the  still  night  air.  'Tis  the 
soldiers'  signal  "  Lights  Out !"— the  soldiers'  rude 


Draws  forth  lier  precions  picture  and  lays  it  at  a  riml's 
feet." 


A  WAK-TIME  WOOING.  195 

yet  never-forgotten  lullaby.  An  instant  gleam 
as  of  recognition  hovers  in  the  glazing  eyes. 
Then  follow  a  few  faint  gasps ;  then — one  last 
gesture  as  the  arm  falls  limp  and  nerveless ;  but 
it  draws  forth  her  precious  picture  and  lays  it 
at  a  rival's  feet. 


THE   END. 


By  AMELIE   EIYES. 

A  BROTHER  TO  DRAGONS,  and  Other  Old-time 
Tales.     Post  8vo,  Cloth,  Extra,  $1  00. 

VIRGINIA    OF    VIRGINIA.      A  Story.      Illustrated. 
Post  8vo,  Cloth,  Extra,  |1  00. 


One  is  permitted  to  discover  qualities  of  mind  and  a  proficiency  and 
capacity  in  art  from  which  something  uew  and  distinctively  the  work 
of  genius  may  be  anticipated  in  American  literature.— jBosfon  Globe. 

Miss  Rives  has  imagination,  breadth,  and  a  daring  and  courage 
oftenest  spoken  of  as  masculine.  Moreover,  she  is  exquisitely  poet- 
ical, and  her  ideals,  with  all  the  mishaps  of  her  delineations,  are  of  an 
esalted  order X.  Y.  Star. 

It  was  little  more  than  two  years  ago  that  Miss  Eives  made  her  first 
literary  conquest,  a  conquest  so  complete  and  astonishing  as  at  once 
to  give  her  fame.  How  well  she  has  sustained  and  added  to  the  repu- 
tation she  so  suddenly  won,  we  all  know,  and  the  permanency  of  that 
reputation  demonstrates  conclusively  that  her  success  did  not  depend 
upon  the  lucky  striking  of  a  popular  fancy,  but  that  it  rests  upon  en- 
during qualities  that  are  developing  more  and  more  richly  year  by 
year.— Richmond  State. 

It  is  evident  that  the  author  has  imagination  in  an  unusual  degree, 
much  strength  of  expression,  and  skill  in  delineating  character.— £os- 
ton  Journal. 

There  are  few  young  writers  who  begin  a  promising  career  with  so 
much  spontaneity  and  charm  of  expression  as  is  displayed  by  Miss 
'Rives.— Litei-ary  World,  Boston. 

The  trait  which  the  author  seems  to  take  the  most  pleasure  in  de- 
picting is  the  passionate  loyalty  of  a  girl  to  her  lover  or  of  a  young 
wife  to  her  husband,  and  her  portrayal  of  this  trait  has  feeling,  and  is 
set  off  by  an  unconventional  style  and  brisk  movement. — The  Book 
Buyer,  N.  Y. 

There  is  such  a  wealth  of  imagination,  such  an  exuberance  of  strik- 
ing language  in  the  productions  of  this  author,  as  to  attract  and  hold 
the  reader.— Toledo  Blade. 

Miss  Rives  is  essentially  a  teller  of  love  stories,  and  relates  them 
with  such  simple,  straightforward  grace  that  she  at  once  captures  the 
sympathy  and  interest  of  the  reader.  .  .  .  There  is  a  freshness  of  feeling 
and  a  mingling  of  pathos  and  humor  which  are  simply  delicious.— JS'ew 
London  Telegraph. 

Published  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  Xew  York. 

5^^  Harpeb  &  Brothkhs  icill  send  either  of  the  above  icorJcs  by  mail, 
postage  prepaid,  to  any  part  of  the  United  States  or  Canada,  on 
receipt  of  the  price. 


A  STKAIS'GE  MAISTUSCEIPT  FOL^D  IN 
A  COPPER  CYLII^DEE. 

A  Romance.     Richly  Illustrated  by  Gilbert  Gaul. 
12mo,  Cloth,  Extra,  $1  25. 


The  writer  of  this  book,  whose  name  is  still  kept  from  the  public,  is 
in  every  way  qualified  to  rank  with  Mr.  Haggard.  Indeed,  his  clever 
analysis  of  Kosekin  social  laws  is  far  more  able,  from  a  strictly  liter- 
ary point  of  view,  than  anything  Mr.  Haggard  has  ever  done — N.  Y. 
Herald. 

A  story  of  remarkable  power  and  originality,  as  weird  and  as  wild  as 
the  most  extravagant  of  Rider  Haggard's  romances,  but  better  fiction 
and  better  literature  in  every  way.  .  .  .  The  book  is  well  worth  the 
reading,  not  only  for  the  strangeness  of  the  story,  but  for  the  fancy 
ftud  poetic  sentiment  that  pervade  it,  for  the  brilliancy  of  the  inven- 
tion that  has  been  brought  to  bear  upon  it,  and  for  the  immense  vivid- 
ness and  animation  of  the  descriptive  narrative — Saturday  Evening 
Gazette,  Boston. 

In  close  connection  with  the  author's  fanciful  creations  there  is  no- 
ticeable a  fine  play  of  irony  and  humor,  which  lends  a  special  charm 
to  the  storj'.  The  latter  is  full  of  movement,  and  even  in  the  more  ex- 
citing passages  the  exaggeration  necessarily  employed  has  no  effect 
in  wearying  the  reader's  attention. — X.  Y.  Sun. 

Written  in  an  inviting  manner,  it  preserves  throughout  a  lively 
pictorial  charm  and  dramatic  interest.  The  theme  is  original  in 
the  extreme.  .  .  .  Withal  the  book  is  marvellously  entertaining.  Mr. 
Gaul's  illustrations  are  unusually  fine,  as  we  should  expect.— Brooklyn 
Times. 

It  surpasses  the  best  of  Haggard's  works  in  literary  tone,  and  its 
fine  dramatic  construction  and  peculiar  power  of  diction  will  readily 
be  acknowledged  by  all  readers.  .  .  .  Taking  it  altogether,  this  book 
is  the  most  remarkable  piece  of  fiction  the  new  year  has  yet  seen,  and 
a  revelation  of  the  identity  of  the  author  would  be  -welcomed.— Boston 
Covimonwealth. 

A  book  original  in  conception  and  most  powerful  and  dramatic  in 
development.  It  is  to  be  regretted  that  the  author  has  not  seen  tit  to 
reveal  his  name.— Washington  Post. 

It  is  not  possible  for  any  one,  much  less  a  youth  of  either  sex,  to 
read  "A  Strange  Manuscript"  without  feeling  that  wonderful  charm 
that  stole  over  us  all  when  children  upon  the  perusal  of  our  favorite 
adventures.  The  cathedral  clock  may  chime  the  fast-speeding  hours, 
and  the  midnight  taper  burn  to  its  socket,  but  this  rare  volume  will 
remain  before  the  eager  eyes  until  the  last  page  is  finished.— ffarf/ord 


Published  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  New  York. 

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United  States  or  Canada,  on  receipt  of  the  price. 


NAEKA,  THE  MHILIST. 
By  Kathleen  O'^Ieara.    16mo,  Cloth,  $1  09. 


"The  scenes  and  incidents  of  Miss  O'Meara's  tale  are  purely  Rus- 
sian, and  the  time  is  the  present  period  of  which  Tolstoi  treats.  Nat- 
urally they  suggest  the  marvellously  realistic  pictures  of  the  author  of 
'Anna  Kareuiua,'  although  it  would  be  very  unjust  to  the  younger 
novelist  to  compare  her  work  with  his.  Tolstoi  is  always  introspec- 
tive; he  deals  rather  with  character  than  with  the  incidents  which  de- 
velop character.  'Narka'  portrays  an  involved  and  ingenious  com- 
plication of  events  which  hold  the  interest  of  the  absorbed  reader  until 
the  end  is  reached.  Tolstoi's  stories,  even  when  he  has  a  story  to  tell, 
are  simply  the  intuitive  outgrowth  of  the  thoughts  and  actions  of  the 
real  men  und  women  he  draws.  His  dramatis  personce  make  his  plots, 
while  Miss  O'Meara's  plots,  on  the  other  hand,  make  her  men  and 
women.  .  .  .  Narka  Larik,  a  low-born  Russian  Jewess,  is  a  peculiar 
product  of  Russian  soil  and  of  autocratic  Russian  rule.  She  is  pos- 
sessed of  a  beautiful  person,  a  glorious  voice,  and  a  strong  moral  and 
mental  constitution  ;  she  is  suspicious,  as  all  Muscovites  are,  a  thor- 
ough and  consistent  hater,  a  devoted  friend,  truthful  to  a  degree;  and 
she  calmly  swears  on  the  holy  image  of  the  blessed  St.  Nicholas  to  an 
utter  falsehood  in  order  to  screen  her  lover  and  to  aid  his  cause.  .  .  . 
The  scenes  are  laid  among  that  curious  mixture  of  Oriental  magnifi- 
cence and  barbaric  discomfort,  of  lavish  expenditure  and  shabby 
makeshift,  to  be  found  in  a  Russian  castle,  with  its  splendid  vast- 
ness,  the  immensity  of  its  grounds,  the  immensity  of  the  forests  on 
all  sides  of  it,  and  the  general  scale  of  immensity  on  which  everything 
about  it,  and  within  it,  is  invariably  conducted.  Add  to  these  Rus- 
sian prisons,  Paris  salons,  French  convents,  the  lyric  stage  at  Milan, 
Socialists,  Nihilists,  priests,  patriots,  and  vivisectionists,  and  it  will 
readily  be  seen  how  strong  and  effective  a  story  can  be  made  by  a 
woman  so  gifted  in  the  telling  of  stories,  the  weaving  of  plots,  and  the 
study  of  character  as  Miss  O'Meara  has  already  proved  herself  to  be. 
Narka  Larik  is  a  better  woman  morally  than  Anna  Karenina,  intel- 
lectually she  is  the  superior  of  Katia,  and  she  is  quite  worthy  to  stand 
by  the  side  of  these  two  illustrious  countrywomen  of  hers  as  the  expo- 
nent of  all  that  is  true  and  womanly  in  modern  Russian  life." 


Published  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  New  York. 

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United  States  or  Canada,  on  receipt  of  the  price. 


H.  EIDER  HAGGAED'S  STOEIES. 


There  are  color,  splendor,  aud  passion  everywhere ;  action  in  abun- 
dance ;  constant  variety  and  absorbing  interest.  Mr.  Haggard  does 
not  err  on  ^he  side  of  niggardliness;  he  is  only  too  affluent  in  de- 
ecription  and  ornament.  .".  .  There  is  a  largeness,  a  freshness,  and  a 
strength  about  him  which  are  full  of  promise  and  encouragement, 
the  more  since  he  has  placed  himself  so  unmistakably  on  the  roman- 
tic side  of  fiction;  that  is,  on  the  side  of  truth  aud  permanent  value. 

...  He  is  already  one  of  the  foremost  modern  romance  writers X.  Y. 

World. 

Mr.  Haggard  has  a  genius,  not  to  say  a  great  talent,  for  story-tell- 
ing. . .  .  That  he  should  have  a  large  circle  of  readers  in  England  and 
this  country,  where  so  many  are  trying  to  tell  stories  with  no  stories 
to  tell,  is  a  healthy  sign,  in  that  it  shows  that  the  love  of  fiction,  pure 
and  simple,  is  as  strong  as  it  was  in  the  days  of  Dickens  and  Thack- 
eray and  Scott,  the  older  days  of  Smollett  and  Fielding,  and  the  old, 
old  days  of  Le  Sage  and  Cervantes — X.  Y.  Mail  and  Express. 

That  region  of  the  universe  of  romance  which  Mr.  Haggard  has 
opened  up  is  better  worth  a  visit  than  any  that  has  been  explored  for 
many  a  long  year St.  James's  Gazette,  London, 

There  is  a  charm  in  tracing  the  ingenuity  of  the  author,  and  a  sense 
of  satisfaction  in  his  firm  grasp  of  his  subject.  There  is  no  uncer- 
tainty at  all,  no  groping  after  material,  but  one  vivid  scene  follows 
another  until  the  reader  says  to  himself,  "Here,  at  last,  is  a  novelist 
who  is  not  attempting  to  spread  out  one  dramatic  situation  so  thin 
that  it  can  be  made  to  do  duty  for  an  entire  volume;  a  man  of  re- 
source, imagination,  and  invention."— C/i/cofjo  Herald. 

SHE.     Illustrated.     16mo,  Half  Cloth,  75  cents;  Paper, 

25  cents;  4to,  Paper,  25  cents. 
KING   SOLOMON'S   MINES.     16mo,  Half  Cloth,  75 

cents;  4to,  Paper,  20  cents. 
MR.  MEESON'S  WILL.     IGmo,  Half  Cloth,  75  cents; 

Paper,  25  cents. 
JESS.     16mo,  Half  Cloth,  75  cents;  4to,  Paper,  15  cents. 
DAWN.    With  One  Illustration.     16mo,  Half  Cloth,  75 

cents, 
THE  WITCH'S  HEAD.     16mo,  Half  Cloth,  75  cents. 
ALLAN  QUATERMAIN.  Illustrated.  16mo,  Half  Cloth, 

75  cents;  Paper,  25  cents. 
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